-   V&* 


I—      //&> 


H          LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY 'OF  CALIFORNIA         LIBRARY 


=:   m 


•-.-     VvJ^ 


•—      //&> 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY 


RSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


QJ/M£> 
LIBRARY   OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALI 


RSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY   OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALI 


JH3     \ 

: 

' 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I.   THICKET  STREET:  AS  IT  is 


PAGB 
I 


II.  As  IT  WAS 7 

III.  THE  SECOND  FRONT  SEAWARD  CORNER     .        .  20 

IV.  M.  JACQUES 31 

V.  MRS.  ZERVIAH  MYRTLE 44 

VI.  "STAYING  HONEST" 71 

VII.  "Goo's  FOLKS" 81 

VIII.  THE  GRAY  ROOM 96 

IX.  A  LETTER I2i 

X.  THE  WHITE  STONE 143 

XL  WHICH  TREATS  OF  A   PANORAMA  .  .  .170 

XII.  EUNICE  AND  CHRISTINA 186 

XIII.  UNE  FEMME  BLANCHE 195 

XIV.  A  STORM  OF  WIND 219 


iv  Contents. 

XV.  A  PRAYER-MEETING 232 

XVI.  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  ....  240 

XVII.  THE  LITTLE  DOCTOR 253 

XVIII.  THE  "  METHODY  TUNE  "        ....  260 

XIX.  THE  NINTH  OF  AUGUST 281 


/TV"       OF  TUB 

WINTERS  IT  Y] 

V^XIFOI 
HEDGED    IN 


CHAPTER   I. 

THICKET   STREET:  AS   IT   is. 

«  T  T  OUSES  in  streets  are  the  places  to  live 
11  in"?  Would  Lamb  ever  have  said  it 
if  he  had  spent,  as  I  did,  half  a  day  in,  and  in 
the  region  of,  No.  19  Thicket  Street,  South 
Atlas  ? 

My  visit  was  a  recent  one,  and  my  story  is 
not ;  probably,  however,  the  later  aspect  of  the 
place  is  a  photograph  of  the  earlier.  Streets 
have  their  moods,  habits,  laws  of  character. 
Once  at  the  bottom  of  the  social  stair,  they 
are  apt,  like  men,  to  stay  there.  We  make 
over  our  streets  to  degradation,  like  old  jackets 
to  the  last  boy.  The  big  brother  always  has 
the  new  clothes. 

The  little  one,  overgrown  and  under-dressed, 
remains  "the  eternal  child,"  —  more  simply,  (and 


2  Hedged  In. 

perhaps  to  the  Father  of  the  ends  of  the  earth 
none  the  less  tenderly  for  the  economy,)  the 
"  baby  of  the  family." 

Thicket  Street,  at  the  time  of  my  visit,  had 
about  the  proportions,  to  say  nothing  of  other 
qualities,  of  a  drain-spout.  The  inelegance  of 
the  figure  may  be  pardoned  if  the  reader  will 
bear  in  mind  that  I  am  not  writing  "a  novel 
of  high  life." 

The  alley,  long  and  narrow,  sloped  over  a 
slimy  hill  to  the  water.  The  sidewalk  being 
a  single  foot-path  only,  there  was  generally  a 
child  under  a  wheel  or  a  hoof;  this  may  have 
accounted  for  the  number  of  dwarfs,  and  gashed, 
twisted,  "  unpleasant  bodies "  which  struck  the 
stranger's  eye. 

The  alley,  I  noticed,  was  imperfectly  guttered, 
if  at  all,  and,  in  a  storm,  became  the  bed  of  a 
miniature  torrent ;  in  the  best  of  weather  the 
drainage  from  the  high  thoroughfares  swept  it. 
Certain  old  wharves  at  its  mouth,  from  which 
the  soft,  green  wood  was  constantly  falling,  were 
laden  with  —  I  think  it  was  codfish  and  whale- 
oil.  One  well  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  supplied 
the  street.  There  were  two  dead  trees  boxed 


Thicket  Street:  as  it  is.  3 

in  by  rails,  and  a  little  ruined  stucco-work  about 
a  few  door-ways.  The  houses  were  of  wood,  with 
heavily  projecting  eaves,  and  had  most  of  them 
sunk  with  the.  descending  grade.  This  gave 
them  a  shame-faced,  tipsy  air,  like  that  of  a  man 
with  his  hat  over  his  eyes.  ;  They  had  been  built 
by  a  jerky  process  of  landscape  gardening,  —  in 
each  other's  shadow,  in  each  other's  light,  jut 
ting  here,  retreating  there ;  having  the  appear 
ance  of  being  about  to  chassez  croise  in  a  ghastly 
dance  of  ruin  and  filth.  The  wind  blew  generally 
from  the  wharves.  The  sun  seldom  drabbled 
his  golden  skirts  in  the  place;  even  at  direct 
midday,  when  from  very  shining  weight  they  fell 
into  the  foulness,  he  submitted  to  the  situation 
with  a  sullen  pallor  like  that  of  faintness.  In 
the  sickly  light,  heaps  of  babies  and  garbage 
became  distinct.  In  the  damp,  triangular  shad 
ows,  formed  by  the  irregular  house  -  fronts,  a 
little  cold  chickweed  crept 

The  business  spirit  of  the  community  expressed 
itself  in  a  tobacconist's,  three  concert-saloons, 
two  grog-shops,  and  a  crinoline-mender,  —  who 
looked  in  at  the  windows  of  No.  19. 

The    alley,  at    the    last    census,  reported  be- 


4  Hedged  In. 

tween  eighteen  and  nineteen  hundred  souls. 
The  accommodations  varied  from  four  persons 
to  four  families  in  a  room. 

No.  19  was  a  very  old  house,  shabby  even 
amid  the  shabbiness  ;  it  was  near  the  water, 
and  much  discolored,  I  observed,  either  by  the 
saltness  or  the  impurity  of  the  harbor  mists ; 
the  wood  was  crumbling  about  the  sills  of 
doors  and  windows,  and  rank  moss  notched 
the  roof.  Children  swarmed  on  the  steps  and 
stairs  ;  an  old  woman,  with  a  childish  leer,  sat 
in  a  window  picking  rags ;  and  a  young  woman, 
haggard  and  old,  crouched  on  the  pavement, 
sunning  herself  like  an  animal.  I  asked  from 
the  rag-picker  the  privilege  of  visiting  the  sec 
ond  front  seaward  corner  room,  and  the  girl 
piloted  me  up  the  crooked  stair. 

"  Many  occupants  ? " 

"  Fourteen." 

"  That 's  a  pity  !  " 

She  laughed  stupidly. 

"  Alwers  so.  It 's  the  biggest  tenement  in 
the  house  ;  jammed,  you  bet !  Alwers  was." 

"  It  must  be  a  very  hard  thing  or  a  very  bad 
thing." 


Thicket  Street:  as  it  is.  5 

"Eh?" 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  I  am  sorry  for  them." 

"  Oh ! " 

She  nodded  sullenly,  flinging  open  the  door 
without  knock  or  warning,  according  to  what 
I  took  to  be  the  received  form  of  morning  calls 
in  No.  19. 

The  room  was  full  and  foul.  Babies  were 
numerous  and  noisy ;  several  women  were  drunk. 
The  tenement,  low  and  dark,  commanded,  through 
dingy  and  broken  windows,  a  muddy  line  of  har 
bor,  wharves,  and  a  muddy  sky.  I  could  see, 
without,  the  crinoline-mender  at  his  window, 
a  couple  of  dance-house  signs,  and  the  tobacco- 
shop.  I  could  see,  within,  nothing  characteristic 
or  familiar.  I  should  except,  perhaps,  a  certain 
dull  stain,  which  bore  a  rude  resemblance  to  a 
spider,  over  in  the  eastern  corner  of  the  tene 
ment,  low  upon  the  wall.  A  hospitable  lady  in 
a  red  frock,  anxious  to  do  the  honors  of  the 
place,  pointed  it  out. 

"  There 's  where  a  gal  murdered  her  baby ; 
years  agone.  If  't  had  n't  been  so  long  afore 
our  day,  I  might  have  accommodated  ye  with 
partikkelars." 


6  Hedged  In. 

This  was  said  with  that  tender  regret  with 
which  Mr.  White  might  force  himself  to  drop  a 
broken  legend  of  Shakespeare,  or  Baring-Gould 
cement  a  shattered  myth  of  the  Golden  Years. 

I  closed  the  sunken  door  with  suddenly  blinded 
eyes.  I  think  that  I  must  have  offered  money  to 
the  haggard  girl,  which  she  refused.  I  suspect 
that  something  which  I  said  to  the  rag-picker 
left  her  sobbing.  I  know  that  I  nearly  broke 
my  neck  over  a  couple  of  babies  in  the  door, 
and  that  I  plodded  my  way,  lame  and  thought 
ful,  back  through  the  filth  into  pure  air  and 
sunshine. 


OF   TIJE 

NIVERSITY 


CHAPTER    II. 

AS    IT    WAS  . 

THICKET  STREET,  at  the  time  of  my 
story,  boasted  the  foot-path,  the  foulness, 
the  twisted  children,  the  wharves  and  whale- 
oil,  the  staggering  houses  and  shops  for  grog, 
the  impure  winds  and  dainty  sunlight,  the  old 
women  turned  children,  and  children  old  wo 
men,  as  well  as  about  the  same  generous  al 
lowance  of  inhabitants  to  the  street  and  to  the 
tenement. 

No.  19  offered  very  nearly  its  present  at 
tractions  in  respect  to  room,  air,  light,  privacy, 
and  quiet.  The  second  front  seaward  corner 
sustained  its  reputation  for  being  "  jammed,  you 
bet!"  retained  its  dingy  windows  and  muddy 
view  ;  held,  with  more  tenacity  than  at  the  pres 
ent  time,  its  stained  wall  and  stained  legend. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  judge,  the  only  material 
changes  in  the  vicinity  have  been  the  addition 


8  Hedged  In. 

of  one  concert-saloon,  and  the  substitution  of 
the  crinoline-mender  for  a  little  guitar-maker, 
who  sang  over  his  work  in  his  window. 

That  there  should  be  a  crowd  about  the  door 
ways  of  No.  19  was  nothing  uncommon,  but 
the  crowd  collected,  chiefly  upon  the  stairs 
and  steps,  on  a  September  afternoon  somewhat 
less  than  thirty  years  ago,  was  not  altogether 
of  a  common  kind. 

It  was  composed  principally  of  women,  and 
of  old  women  ;  a  few  young  girls  hung  on  its 
edges,  and  children  —  very  young  children  — 
stood  here  and  there  leaning  against  the  walls, 
listening  intently  and  intelligently. 

A  woman  with  rather  a  clean  cap,  and  her 
skirts  tucked  about  her  bony  knees,  sat  above 
the  rest  upon  the  stairway,  her  chin  in  her 
hands,  and  her  face  somewhat  grave.  It  was 
as  rugged  as  a  face  could  be  without  being  pos 
itively  bad,  but  it  was  not  bad.  She  had  a 
sharp  mouth  (all  the  women  in  Thicket  Street 
had  sharp  mouths),  but  it  was  slightly  soft 
ened  ;  and  keen  eyes,  but  they  were  slightly 
dim.  She  had  evidently  a  story  to  tell,  and 
had  told  it,  and  was  not  loath  to  tell  it  again. 


As  it  was.  9 

Conversation  was  brisk,  and  ran  like  this :  — 

"  She  said  so  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  She  's  always   sayin'   oncommon    things,  — 

Nix." 

"  What  did  you  tell  her,  Lize  ? " 

"I  told  her  if  she  wanted  to  be  let  alon',  let 
alon'  she  should  be." 

The  woman  in  the  clean  cap  said  this  de 
cidedly. 

"  It  's  a  poor  time  to  be  givin'  of  herself  airs, 
in  my  opinion  ;  't  ain't  more  'n  common  polite 
ness  to  the  neighbors  to  give  'em  a  sight  of  the 
baby." 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Moll  Manners  !  "  -  Lize 
shook  her  head  sternly,  and  jerked  her  sharp 
knees  against  the  wall,  as  if  to  bar  the  stairway, 

«I  '11  be  obleeged  to  you  if  you  '11  keep  away 

from  Nixy  Trent.  Hear,  do  ye?" 

Moll  Manners  laughed  a  little,  with  a  certain 
change  of  color,  which,  years  ago,  might  have 
been  a  blush.  She  had  bright  eyes,  and  they 
snapped.  Lize  punched  her  other  knee  into  the 
wall,  breaking  away  the  cracked  plaster  by  the 
emphasis  of  her  touch,  and  rambled  on  :  — 


io  Hedged  In. 

"  She  's  too  good  a  gal  to  be  spoiled  in  a  hur 
ry,  poor  creetur !  sobbin'  night  an'  day  this  three 
months  gone,  and  never  a  mother  in  the  world  to 
do  for  her  this  day.  She  's  out  of  her  head  off 
and  on  ;  talks  of  prison  and  p'lice-folks  ;  keeps  a 
pleadin'  and  a  beggin'  of  Je'b  Smith  to  take  her 
back  into  the,  saloon.  Every  time  the  young  un 
cries,  —  it  's  an  ugly,  squealy  little  thing  as  ever 
drew  breath  in  this  world,  —  down  goes  she  with 
her  head  under  the  clothes  —  all  in  a  heap  —  to 
shut  out  the  noise,  likes  I  make  it.  She  takes  it 
oncommon  hard.  In  the  course  of  my  experi 
ence," —  Lize  attempted  to  lower  her  voice  sen- 
tentiously ;  the  effect  of  the  effort  was  a  bass 
grumble,  —  "in  the  course  of  my  experience,  I 
never  see  a  gal  take  it  so  ^common  hard. 
There  's  gals  an'  gals,  but  then  you  know  there  's 
a  mother  or  suthin',  leastways  an  aunt,  or  less. 
There  was  Ann  Peters,  now !  I  was  nigh  ready 
to  forgive  old  Mis'  Peters  beatin'  of  Boss  to 
death,  for  the  way  she  up  an'  stood  by  Ann,  an' 
she  nothin'  but  a  fust  cousin!  It  spoke  well 
for  the  family.  Nix  here  hain't  so  much  as  a 
cat  'at  belongs  to  her  name,  —  an'  not  turned 
sixteen ! " 


As  it  was.  ii 

Lize  spoke  loudly,  —  she  was  never  known  to 
speak  otherwise,  do  the  best  she  might,  — and 
apparently  the  little  guitar-maker  across  the  way 
heard  what  she  was  saying,  —  in  part,  at  least,  — 
for  his  song  stopped  abruptly,  —  he  had  been 
singing  something  in  French  about  "  L' amour, 
1'amour," — and  he  turned  his  back  to  No.  19 
with  an  angry  jerk.  He  wished  that  the  women 
would  let  the  girl  alone.  He  was  rather  fond 
of  Nixy.  It  vexed  him  to  hear  her  chattered 
about.  He  twanged  a  cracked  string  discord 
antly,  while  they  whispered  and  nodded  about 
Lize  and  Moll.  Moll,  being  rather  quick,  no 
ticed  this,  and  took  the  trouble  to  laugh  at  him. 

"  What  '11  become  of  the  baby,  Lize  ? " 

"The  Lord  knows!" 

"  There 's  ways  of  gettin'  rid  o't,  —  Nix  is  no 
fool." 

"  Nix  is  no  brute  !  "  retorted  Lize,  crossly.  She 
pulled  her  knees  out  from  the  hole  they  had 
worked  in  the  wall,  and  stretched  herself  power 
fully,  gathering  up  her  skirts  meanwhile,  to 
mount  the  dirty  stairs.  Lize  used  to  get  laughed 
at  in  No.  19  for  being  "  fine." 

"  There 's   the   young  un   again  !    That   child 


12  Hedged  In. 

will  cry  itself  to  death  yet,  and  good  riddance  ! 
It  worrits  her  into  them  fever  spells  I  was  tellin' 
of.  There  '11  be  the  mischief  to  pay  if  we  can't 
keep  her  more  peaceful-like  —  and  a  doctor  too  !" 
("  Yes,  yes  !  "  calling  up  the  stairs.  "  Never  mind, 
Nix  !  I  '11  be  back.")  «  Well,  well !  It 's  a  sorry 
piece  of  business,  make  the  best  ye  will  o't. 
Good  lack  be  praised,  /  never  brought  a  woman- 
child  into  the  world  !  " 

A  little  wailing  cry  from  the  second  front  sea 
ward  corner  floated  down  after  Lize,  and  Lize, 
with  powerful  steps,  tramped  up  after  it. 

Moll  Manners  shrugged  her  shoulders.  The 
women,  with  whispers,  scattered  slowly.  The  lit 
tle  guitar-maker  struck  up  a  tune,  and  sang :  — 

"  Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 

It 's  lonely  —  lonely  ! 
O,  the  wind  is  sharp  and  chill 
At  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 

And  it 's  lonely  —  lonely  !  " 

I  presume  Nix,  in  her  corner  bed,  close  under 
the  stained  wall,  had  caught  the  tune  (she  knew 
most  of  the  guitar-maker's  tunes),  if  not  the 
words,  for  she  was  sobbing  when  Lize  came  up. 

She  was  a  young  thing,  as  Lize  had  said,  "  not 


As  it  was.  !3 

turned  sixteen,"  with  the  expression  even  of  a 
much  younger  child  ;  in  fact,  there  were  children 
in  the  group  gossiping  about  her  down  stairs  with 
faces  older  than  hers.  She  might,  in  an  inno 
cent,  happy  time,  have  been  pretty,  very  pretty. 
Now,  worn  with  suffering  and  shame,  she  was 
ghastly. 

She  was  comparatively  alone ;  that  is  to  say, 
there  were  but  three  people  in  the  room  besides 
herself  and  her  child,  —  a  child  sick  with  mea 
sles,  a  woman  drunk,  and  a  woman  washing; 
the  room  was  filled  with  unclean  steam. 

Her  bed  —  I  apply  the  term  out  of  courtesy 
to  the  mass  of  rags  and  straw  upon  which  she 
lay  with  her  two-days  baby — being,  as  I  said, 
in  the  corner,  Lize  had  contrived  to  shield  it  a 
little  by  a  ragged  calico  curtain  ;  it  was  one  of 
her  own  dresses  which  had  been  waiting  for 
patching,  —  that  curtain  ;  Nixy  had  been  too 
sick  to  find  this  out,  which  was  as  well,  for  Lize 
had  not  many  dresses,  and  she  knew  it.  There 
was  brown  paper  pinned  across  the  lower  half  of 
the  window  too,  —  Lize's  work  ;  it  was  old,  soiled, 
and  cracked  in  the  folds ;  strips  of  pale  sunlight, 
narrow  as  a  knitting-needle,  pierced  it,  and  Nixy, 


14  Hedged  In. 

lying  quite  still  now  for  some  time  past,  had  been 
watching  it  with  confused  interest.  There  were 
clothes  flapping  and  drying  out  on  a  neighbor's 
roof  and  the  strips  of  light  quivered  and  shot 
about  in  consequence. 

Sometimes  they  struck  Nixy  in  the  eyes,  and 
hurt  her.  Sometimes  they  struck  the  baby,  and 
she  wished  that  they  would  hurt  him ;  he  cried 
as  if  they  did,  and  she  was  glad  of  it.  The  baby 
was  so  dreadful  to  her !  Sometimes  she  took  the 
golden  needles  into  her  hands,  and  knit  with 
them  —  fast ;  socks  for  the  child,  shawls  for  him, 
shrouds  for  him,  —  always  for  him,  and  always 
fast.  Sometimes  the  needles  turned  into  sharp 
fingers,  and  pointed  at  the  red  stain  upon  the 
wall,  when  the  spider  appeared  to  move  —  the 
spot  seemed  more  like  a  spider  to  Nixy  than  it 
did  to  me  —  and  crawl  over  the  baby,  and  crawl 
over  her. 

"  Hm — m — m."  Lize,  coming  in,  kneeled, 
with  her  finger  on  the  girl's  pulse,  and  her  chin 
set  in  thought. 

"  This  won't  do  ;  this  won't  do  !  There  '11 
have  to  be  somebody  that  knows  more  nor  me 
to  take  you  in  hand,  Nix.  Hush  !  Ye  Ve  cried 


As  it  was.  15 

enough.  Doctor  won't  harm  ye  u'less  it  was  for 
his  interest  and  adwantage,  —  which  't  ain't  like 
ly.  There  !  Stop  your  noise  !  " 

For  Lize  was  rough  sometimes,  and  was,  to 
tell  the  truth,  at  the  end  of  her  professional  wits 
with  the  girl. 

"  I  'd  rather  not !  I  'd  rather  not  have  a  doc 
tor  ! "  said  Nixy,  weakly.  "  When  I  get  well  I  '11 
earn  enough  to  pay  you,  Lize,  if  you  '11  be 
bothered  to  take  care  of  me  alone,  you  know. 
I  '11  be  able  to  walk  before  you  know  it.  I  could 
almost  walk  to-day,  if  I  tried.  He  'd  send  me  to 
jail,  ef  you  get  him  /" 

"  I  don't  want  yer  money ! "  growled  Lize, 
"  and  't  would  n't  be  jails  ;  't  would  n't  be  worse 
nor  'sylums,  where  the  Lord  knows  ye  mought  be 
best  off.  It 's  a  way  he  has,  —  yes  ;  but  it  mought 
be  a  worse  way.  He  's  not  a  bad  man,  —  Burtis. 
Little  pay  and  many  patients  he  's  got  out  of 
Thicket  Street  in  my  time.  Hush  now  !  or  ye  '11 
set  the  young  un  off  again.  Take  yer  drops  and 
yer  naps  afore  dark  and  the  men-folks  comin'." 

Nixy  hushed,  but,  much  as  she  dreaded  the 
time  and  the  noise  of  the  "men-folks  comin'," 
she  could  not  sleep.  She  shut  her  eyes  to  please 


1 6  Hedged  In. 

the  old  nurse,  and,  in  coherent  and  incoherent 
snatches,  thought. 

Nixy  had  never  done  much  thinking  in  the 
course  of  her  life. 

I  knew  once  a  brave,  busy,  generous  girl,  who, 
years  after  the  bitterest  affliction  of  her  life, 
used  to  say,  "  Some  time,  I  think,  I  shall  feel 
better  if  I  can  make  time  to  cry.  I  Ve  never 
had  room  to  cry." 

Nixy,  I  believe,  had  never  had  room  to  think. 

She  did  not  remember  her  childhood  distinct 
ly,  the  very  poor  are  not  apt  to,  perhaps  ;  pres 
ent  necessities  are  too  stern  to  admit  of  past  fan 
cies, —  and  childhood  resolves  itself  into  a  fancy. 

Nixy  was  nobody's  child ;  she  could  remember 
as  much  as  that. 

Fragments  of  things  came  to  her  as  she  lay 
there  with  her  baby  on  her  arm  that  night ; 
snatches  of  songs  she  used  to  sing  in  the  streets, 
rapping  out  the  tune  with  her  cold  little  knuckles 
on  a  cracked  tambourine  for  a  man  with  an 
American  face  and  Italian  name,  —  her  uncle, 
I  believe,  she  was  taught  to  call  him  ;  a  dim 
memory  of  the  woman  to  whom  he  sold  her,  — 
she  kept  boarders ;  of  another  woman  who 


As  it  was.  17 

"adopted"  her,  —  that  was  the  one  who  got 
drunk  every  Tuesday,  and  beat  her  with  the 
bottle  Wednesday  mornings;  of  the  city  mis 
sionary  in  a  green  veil,  who  picked  her  up  selling 
matches  at  a  corner  one  winter  day,  and  lodged 
her  in  an  orphan-asylum ;  of  ten  months  of  little 
blue  -  checked  orphans  and  dog's-eared  spelling- 
books  (the  best  ten  months  of  Nixy's  life,  to  be 
sure,  if  she  had  only  been  "educated"  enough  to 
know  it);  of  her  running  away  one  dark  night 
because  she  could  not  do  a  sum  in  fractions ;  of 
how  sorry  she  had  been  for  it  in  spots ;  of  the 
days  after  that  when  she  wandered  about  with 
the  Thicket  Street  babies,  hunting  for  apple-cores 
in  the  mud,  —  the  hungriest  days  of  her  life  those 
were  ;  of  persuading  Jeb  Smith  to  try  her  in  his 
dining-saloon  at  the  corner  at  last,  —  of  the  life 
in  No.  19,  — of  the  cold  horror  of  the  last  few 
months. 

So  now  it  was  either  all  over  or  all  begun  ;  she 
wondered  confusedly  which.  At  any  rate,  here 
everything  had  stopped. 

What  next  ? 

"  Your  hand,  if  you  please  ;  that 's  right.  I 
want  the  pulse." 


18  Hedged  In. 

Nixy  turned  with  a  start  that  woke  and  fright 
ened  the  child.  The  doctor  sat  on  the  floor  be 
side  her,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand. 

"  I  don't  want  you,"  said  Nixy. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you  against  your 
wish ;  but  you  need  me,  as  I  think  you  will 
find." 

The  physician  spoke  with  careful  courtesy.  A 
close  observer  might  have  thought  him  to  be  ad 
dressing  an  up-town  matron.  It  was  a  "way" 
Dr.  Dyke  Burtis  had  ;  people  had  often  remarked 
it  of  him. 

Nixy  felt  it,  but  it  failed  to  put  her  at*  her 
ease ;  something  in  it  reminded  her  of  the  mis 
sionary  in  the  green  veil ;  gave  her  visions  of 
blue  checks  and  school-bells  and  "  hours "  for 
things;  startled  her  slumbering  dread  of  "jails 
and  'sylums  "  ;  indeed,  she  had  an  indistinct  im 
pression  that  it  was  this  very  man  who  took 
Ann  Peters  to  a  Magdalens'  Home  after  old  Mis' 
Peters  hung  herself.  And  if  ever  anybody  had 
been  a  scarecrow  to  Nixy,  it  was  Ann  Peters. 
So,  because  she  was  frightened,  she  was  sullen. 
But  the  physician  said  nothing  of  jails,  and 
did  not  so  much  as  hint  at  'sylums.  He  dealt 


As  it  was.  19 

with  her  gently,  and  left  her  soon,  —  for  which 
Nixy,  in  spite  of  her  wretched,  terrified  self,  ap 
proved  of  him. 

She  had  seen  more  than  she  appeared  to 
through  her  half-  closed,  heavy  eyelids  ;  had 
watched  the  gentleman's  face  ;  had  felt  it  —  for 
even  people  like  Nixy  feel  such  things  —  to  be  a 
gentleman's  face  ;  and  had  concluded  that  she 
should  know  it  if  she  were  to  see  it  again. 

It  was  a  face  of  perhaps  thirty-five  years' 
moulding,  with  nothing  noticeable  about  it  ex 
cept  a  very  irregular,  full  forehead,  and  a  streak 
of  gray  in  the  middle  of  a  black  beard. 


2o  Hedged  In. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE   SECOND    FRONT    SEAWARD    CORNER. 

"  A  CIVIL-SPOKE  man>"  said  Lize>  cuddling 
-^~^  the  baby  that  night,  "  and  no  fool.  I  take 
it  ye  're  better  for  his  stuff  a' ready.  Hey,  Nix  ?  " 
"  Very  like,"  said  Nix,  absently ;  she  had  for 
gotten  Lize  and  the  doctor  ;  she  was  dropping 
miserable  tears  on  the  pillow,  glad  of  a  chance  to 
cry  without  wetting  the  baby.  The  room  was 
full  now,  and  very  noisy.  She  and  Lize  were 
alone  behind  the  calico  curtain.  The  window 
was  raised  beyond  the  brown-paper  shades,  to 
give  the  girl  a  breath  of  something  a  tone  fresher 
than  the  double  allowance  of  gin  and  tobacco 
consequent  on  the  return  of  "  the  men-folks." 
The  guitar-maker  in  his  window  was  twanging 
a  hymn  ;  on  practice,  not  on  principle ;  it  meant 
nothing  to  him,  —  he  was  French  ;  he  had  picked 
it  up  by  the  way  from  a  street-preacher.  It  began 
like  this,  as  Nixy  made  it  out :  — 

"  Depths  of  mercy !  —  " 


Second  Front  Seaward  Corner.       21 

Then  she  lost  it  in  a  little  tuning  and  a  little 
swearing  ;  in  the  interval  she  stopped  crying  to 
listen,  glad  enough  of  a  change  of  ideas  ;  for  she 
was  young  and  easily  diverted. 

"  Depths  of  mercy  !  —  " 

Something  was  the  matter  with  the  upper  E  ; 
the  next  time  he  had  it.  M:  Jacques  was  critical 
of  himself  always :  — 

"  Depths  of  mercy  !  can  there  be 
Mercy  still  in  store  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Nix,  suddenly,  trying  to  sit 
up  in  bed. 

"  Wonder  ef  it  '11  take  after  you  ?  "  Lize  was 
holding  the  baby  up  in  a  streak  of  light  that  fell 
through  the  calico  curtain.  "  Yes.  Got  them 
big  eyes  o'  yourn  all  over  agin,  —  worse  for  ye, 
mebbe  ! " 

"I  wonder  what  Jacques's  about,  —  what  it 
means,  you  know.  O,  you  don't  know.  Well !  " 

She  fell  back  wearily  upon  the  straw. 

"  .  .  .  .  can  there  be  ?  —  can  there  be  ?  " 

sang  Monsieur  Jacques. 

Nixy,  thinking  it  over,  presently  opened  her 
eyes. 


22  Hedged  In. 

"  I  know.  It  means,  if  there  's  any  way  out  — 
with  that!' 

She  pointed  at  the  baby  with  that  expression, 
partly  of  loathing,  partly  of  fear,  which  always 
came  upon  her  face  at  the  sight  of  it. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  she  's  crazed  yet.  Out  of 
what?" 

Lize  was  losing  patience. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Nixy,  sadly.  "  Never 
mind ! " 

She  did  know  ;  she  had  a  jumble  of  ideas  about 
"  depths,"  and  the  "  bottom  of  the  hill,"  and  its 
being  "lonely — lonely," -and  that  Jeb  Smith  might 
not  want  the  child  in  the  saloon  ;  but  they  were 
not  distinct  enough  to  make  Lize  understand. 

"  I  s'pose  you  could  n't  tell  me  what  —  to  do  — 
when  I  get  out  ? "  she  asked  of  her  by  and  by, 
very  slowly. 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  "  said  Lize.  "  Time  's  in 
no  hurry." 

If  time  was  in  no  hurry,  Nixy  was.  It  was  so 
hard  lying  there  in  that  room !  People  were  in 
and  out,  and  stared  at  her ;  the  doctor  with  the 
streaked  beard  came  and  went,  and  prescribed  for 
her.  Lize,  off  and  on,  took  care  of  her.  Moll 


Second  Front  Seaward  Corner.       23 

Manners,  down  stairs,  gossiped  about  her.  The 
guitar-maker,  in  his  window,  sang  at  her  ;  gen 
erally  about  the  "  hill,"  or  the  "  depths  "  ;  some 
times  of  "  L'amour,  1'amour "  ;  in  dull  weather, 
and  there  was  much  dull  weather  during  poor 
Nixy's  convalescence,  he  practised  dirges. 

If  Nixy  had  been  an  up-street  wife,  she  might 
have  been  allowed  the  privilege  of  being  "  de 
pressed  "  under  the  circumstances,  I  suppose. 
So  Dr.  Burtis  thought,  remembering  certain  of 
his  happier  patients  ;  one  in  particular,  an  out-of- 
town  lady,  —  Myrtle  was  the  name,  by  the  way, 
though  that  is  little  to  the  point,  —  from  whose 
pink  and  perfumed  and  dolorous  chamber  he  used 
to  come  direct  to  No.  19. 

Nixy,  being  in  Thicket  Street,  and  being  only 
Nixy,  "  had  the  dumps,"  —  so  Moll  said. 

"  She  's  cried  long  enough,"  observed  Moll. 
(Poor  Moll !)  "  A  week  would  have  answered. 
The  world  won't  stop  for  her." 

"  The  child  ain't  to  blame,  Nixy  Trent !  "  said 
Lize,  sternly;  once  when,  after  six  hours  of  rain 
and  the  Dead  March  from  Saul,  Nixy  desperately 
flung  the  wailing  infant  off  her  arm,  and  buried 
her  set  face  in  the  straw.  "The  child  ain't  at 


24  Hedged  In. 

fault,  I  tell  ye.  Don't  ye  care  nothin'  for  yer 
own  flesh  and  blood?  helpless —  innocent — " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Nix  ;  she  thought  that  Lize 
was  growing  sentimental,  which  perhaps  she  was. 
Lize  had  never  expended  much  of  her  affection 
on  her  own  honest-born  babies  at  the  advanced 
age  of  two  weeks. 

"  The  Lord  love  it,  if  its  mother  won't ! " 

She  spoke  heartily  that  time,  and  Nixy's 
head  —  it  was  such  a  child's  head!  —  came  out 
of  the  straw. 

"  Mother  ?  I  wish  /  had  a  mother.  To  go  to 
now,  you  know,  Lize.  To  take  me  in,  mebbe, 
and  help  bear  what  folks  say,  and  all  that. 
S'pose  she  'd  be  ready  and  willin'  ?  I  wonder 
if  she  'd  kiss  me  !  "  Lize  subsided. 

"  S'pose  your  boy  come  now,  Lize,  —  not  the 
dead  one,  but  t'  other  one  as  shot  the  fellar  and 
ran  away,  you  know, — would  you  take  him  in, 
and  help  him  bear  what  folks  said  ?  " 

"  Tim  's  no  fool  either,"  said  Lize,  gruffly,  after 
a  silence  ;  "  he  knows." 

She  gathered  Nixy's  baby  up  into  her  brown 
warm  neck,  and  kissed  it.  Nixy  watched  her 
thoughtfully,  but  Nixy  did  not  want  to  kiss  it. 


Second  Front  Seaward  Corner.        25 

The  poor  child  would  have  hated  the  baby  if  she 
had  known  exactly  how. 

She  used  to  dream,  in  her  feverish  nights,  of 
being  at  the  bottom  of  Jacques's  "hill,"  and  all 
the  foot-paths  up  were  narrow  —  very  ;  and  in 
every  path  upon  which  she  set  her  foot  that 
baby  lay.  This  dream  pursued  her  till  her  child 

was  over  two  weeks  old. 

i 

"  What  is  to  become  of  that  poor  girl  ? "  The 
gray-bearded  doctor  asked  this  of  Lize  one  dark 
night,  in  a  whisper  ;  and  Lize,  in  a  whisper,  an 
swered  :  — 

"  Heaven  knows  !  For  she  don't.  I  Ve  come 
to  the  end  of  my  rope.  Folks  must  live  if  they 
are  sorry  for  folks.  I  'm  promised  up  to  Jeb's 
day  after  to-morrow." 

When  they  came  to  Nixy,  they  found  her  sitting 
up  straight  in  bed,  her  mouth  set  and  sulky. 

The  physician  saw  that  he  had  been  overheard. 

"  It 's  no  use,  I  tell  you ! "  began  Nixy, 
promptly. 

"  What  is  of  no  use  ? " 

"  I  won't  go,  I  won't  go  !  " 

"  Go  where  ?  " 

"You  know  you'd  send  me  to  the  'sylum  if 


26  Hedged  In. 

you  could  ! "  said  Nixy,  defiantly.  "  You  know  it 
as  well  as  I  do  !  I  tell  you  it's  no  use  ! " 

"  What  will  you  do,  Nixy  ?  " 

"  I  — don't  know." 

Nixy's  eyes  turned  black  and  frightened,  wan 
dered  from  the  doctor  to  the  window,  to  the 
stained  wall,  to  Lize,  like  the  eyes  of  a  caged 
creature. 

"  I  will  make  everything  easy  and  pleasant  for 
you,"  said  Dr.  Burtis,  gently.  He  hated  to  terrify 
the  girl ;  he  wished  he  knew  of  a  woman  who 
could  do  this  business  for  him  ;  he  felt  very  much 
as  if  he  were  pinching  butterflies.  "They  will 
help  you  to  be  good  at  the  Home.  They  are 
very  kind.  After  a  while  they  will  find  the  best 
way  for  you  to — "  he  hesitated,  gravely  ending  — 
"  to  begin  life  over  again."  ("  She  's  almost  as 
much  of  a  child  as  her  baby ! "  —  under  his  breath 
to  Lize  or  himself,  —  or  the  Lord  perhaps  ;  for 
the  Lord  generally  heard  something  of  Dyke 
Burtis's  patients.) 

He  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the  tides,  — 
I  do  not  mean  the  Lord  now,  but  Nixy. 

"  I  know  all  about  your  'sylums,"  persisted  the 
girl.  "  I  've  been  there  ;  afore  I  went  to  Jeb's.  I 


Second  Front  Seaward  Corner.        27 

ain't  going  from  one  prison  to  another  so  easy. 
Folks  was  well  enough,  —  but  you  don't  catch  me 
agin  ! "  In  spite  of  herself,  Nixy  sobbed.  Dr. 
Dyke  Burtis  coughed  uneasily,  and  took  up  his 
hat ;  he  could  eradicate  tumors  with  more  com 
posure  than  he  could  command  against  a  crying 
girl,  —  and  such  a  helpless,  miserable  girl  ! 

"Think  of  it  till  to-morrow,"  he  begged  her, 
with  gentle  deference,  —  "  think  of  it  till  to-mor 
row,  and  I  will  see  you  again." 

"  Will  you,  though  ?  "  thought  poor  Nixy.  "  It 
takes  two  to  make  that  bargain."  She  turned  her 
face  to  the  wall  to  think.  Lize  came  up  soon  to 
go  to  bed  ;  but  Nixy,  still  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 
lay  thinking,  and  Lize  rolled  heavily  upon  the 
straw  beside  her  without  speaking.  The  thing  of 
which  Nixy  was  thinking  was  that  stain  upon  the 
wall.  She  was  wondering  who  the  girl  was  that 
lay  just  here,  where  she  was  lying,  years  ago  ; 
what  she  was  like  ;  if  she  had  a  mother  to  help 
her  bear  what  folks  said,  and  all  that  ;  if  she  did, 
why  she  knocked  out  the  baby's  brains  ;  if  it  was 
easy  to  do,  —  knocking  out  a  baby's  brains  ;  she 
felt  sorry  for  the  girl  ;  it  did  not  occur  to  her  for 
some  minutes  to  be  sorry  for  the  baby. 


28  Hedged  In. 

Then  she  thought  how  much  more  likely  Jeb 
would  be  to  take  her  back  if  she  went  alone.  She 
meant  to  go  to  Jeb's  to-night,  which  suggested 
the  idea. 

Then  she  fell  to  speculating  a  little,  idly,  on  the 
ease  with  which  she  could  squeeze  the  baby  up 
against  the  wall ;  it  would  not  be  difficult  to 
squeeze  the  breath  out  of  it  altogether. 

This  did  not  strike  her  as  a  thoroughly  pleas 
ant  thing  to  do  ;  but  the  longer  she  looked  at  the 
stained  wall,  the  more  familiar  the  idea  seemed 
to  grow  to  her,  as  a  thing  which  might  be  done, 
—  as  one  would  take  a  pill,  for  instance,  to  cure 
a  headache.  She  could  have  sworn  to  it,  as  she 
looked,  that  the  red  spider  was  weaving  a  red 
web  all  about  her  and  about  the  child.  She 
wanted  to  waken  Lize  and  ask  her.  Because, 
as  the  web  tightened,  it  drew  her  away  from 
Lize,  and  nearer  the  child,  and  nearer  the  red 
dened  wall.  And  as  the  web  narrowed,  it  seemed 
to  her  rather  imperative  than  otherwise  to  squeeze 
the  baby,  just  to  see  how  it  would  feel. 

If  she  was  dreaming,  she  must  have  roused 
suddenly,  for  Lize,  half  awake,  put  her  rough 
hand  over  on  the  girl's  hair,  in  a  motherly  and 
protecting  though  very  sleepy  way. 


Second  Front  Seaward  Corner.       29 

"  Lie  still,  Nix,  and  let  alon'  lookin'  after  the 
murder-stain  ;  it  '11  give  ye  dreams." 

The  murder-stain  ?  That  struck  Nixy  as  a 
new  idea. 

"  I  'm  not  t/tat"  she  said  aloud.  "  I  was  only 
thinking  —  well !"  She  drew  nearer  to  Lize, 
and  took  the  child  upon  her  arm.  She  felt  her 
self  grow  suddenly  cold  all  over,  but  her  head 
was  hot  and  clear. 

"  Lize ! " 

Lize  turned  sleepily. 

"You've  been  good  to  me.  I  sha'  n't  forget 
yer  noways." 

"  Go  to  sleep,  —  go  to  sleep  ! "  said  Lize,  un- 
romantically  enough. 

"  And,  Lize,  look  here  !  I  '11  try  to  like  it ; 
I  '11  try  to  like  the  baby,  because  you  took  it  all 
up  in  your  neck  and  kissed  it,  just  like — just 
like  I  wished  I  had  a  mother  to  take  me  up  and 
kiss  me." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  to  herself,  for  Lize 
was  sound  asleep. 

So  were  half  the  men  and  women  in  the  room. 
It  was  early  ;  but  they  were  all  hard  workers  or 
hard  drinkers  in  No.  19,  and  they  slept  both  soon 
and  soundly. 


30  Hedged  In. 

Nixy  lay  still  for  a  little  time,  and  then,  with 
great  care  and  little  stir,  crawled  with  the  baby 
over  Lize's  feet,  and  sat  down  to  rest  upon  the 
floor.  She  was  faint,  at  first,  with  the  effort,  but 
after  a  while  found  herself  able  to  hunt  for  and 
crawl  into  her  clothes,  that  lay  in  a  heap  at 
the  foot  of  the  miserable  bed. 

Some  of  the  doctor's  medicine  was  left  in  a 
mug  upon  the  floor  ;  she  drained  it  eagerly. 
Her  shawl  and  straw  hat  were  on  a  nail  within 
reach.  These  she  put  on,  sitting  still  for  a  while 
to  rest.  She  had  a  dull  feeling  of  relief  that 
Lize  slept  so  soundly.  This  was  drowned,  how 
ever,  by  an  acute  consciousness  that  the  baby  was 
heavy,  and  that  it  was  not  as  'easy  as  it  used  to  be 
to  walk  across  the  room. 


or  THE 

((UNIVERSITY 


ER     IV. 

M.    JACQUES. 

NOS.  19  and  21  boasted  between  them  an 
outside  stairway  ;  this  was  a  luxury  in 
Thicket  Street,  so  great  as  to  affect  the  rents. 

This  stairway  scaled  the  room  where  Nixy  lay ; 
a  door  between  the  eastern  windows  opened  upon 
it ;  the  hinges  were  broken  and  creaked  ;  a  couple 
of  beds  and  several  sleepers  lay  between  her  and 
it ;  it  so  happened,  however,  that  another  of 
those  ragged  curtains,  such  as  Lize  had  given 
her,  hung  between  Nixy,  sleepers,  and  door,  and 
the  waking  occupants  of  the  room ;  these  last 
were  economizing  the  day's  earnings,  thievings, 
or  beggings  by  means  of  dice  and  a  little  rum, 
which  accounted  for  the  privacy. 

Nixy,  after  some  thought  and  rest,  concluded 
to  aim  for  the  eastern  door.  If  detected  in  her 
attempt,  she  had  no  fears  of  interruption  from 
any  one  but  Lize  ;  the  rest  would  give  themselves 


3 2  Hedged  In. 

• 

no  trouble  about  her  ;  but  it  would  take  little 
trouble  to  waken  Lize. 

The  child  stirred  as  she  started,  but  she  hushed 
it,  —  more  softly,  it  must  be  owned,  than  she  had 
ever  hushed  him  before,  —  and  Lize  called  her, 
but  it  was  in  a  dream. 

She  made  her  way  with  little  difficulty  to  the 
creaking  door,  turned  for  a  moment  to  look  in  at 
the  gamblers,  the  sleepers,  the  stained  wall,  the 
curtain  behind  which  old  Lize  was  lying,  with  a 
dull  pain,  like  that  of  homesickness,  for  it  was  the 
only  home  she  knew. 

When  she  had  closed  the  door  and  sat  down 
upon  the  stairs  outside,  it  struck  her  that  she  had 
never  understood  before  that  she  lived  in  a  world  ; 
for  all  in  a  moment  it  had  grown  so  large  ! 

The  stairs  were  damp,  and  she  shivered  with 
chill  and  weakness.  Light  in  the  windows  of  21 
fell,  across  the  low-roofed  passage-way  that  sep 
arated  the  two  houses,  upon  her ;  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  tell  whether  she  looked  most 
haggard  or  most  frightened. 

Ann  Peters  used  to  live  in  21.  She  thought 
about  Ann  as  she  sat  there,  with  a  notion  of 
warming  her  hands  in  the  light  from  the  win- 


M.  Jacqties.  33 

dows  ;  wondered  how  she  liked  it  at  the  'sylum ; 
wondered  what  the  doctor  with  the  streaked  beard 
would  say  to-morrow,  when  Lize  told  him  that 
she  had  gone. 

This  reminded  her  that  she  must  be  in  haste, 
which,  in  the  confusion  consequent  on  coming, 
in  her  weak  condition,  from  the  close  room  to 
the  cold  air,  she  had  for  the  moment  forgot 
ten. 

She  got  up  and  felt  her  way  down  the  stairs  ; 
they  were  very  slippery,  and  it  was  a  slow  pro 
cess.  She  dreaded  falling,  not  so  much  because 
of  herself  as  because  of  the  child,  for  Lize  would 
hear  it  cry.  The  effort  to  make  the  descent  suc 
cessfully  excited  her  a  little,  and  she  crossed  the 
street  with  considerable  ease. 

The  guitar-maker's  window  was  shut.  What 
he  was  singing,  or  if  he  were  singing,  Nixy  could 
not  make  out.  She  passed  his  door,  and  on  up 
to  the  corner  and  Jeb's. 

Jeb  was  serving  late  suppers  yet.  The  door  was 
open  ;  the  smell  of  coffee  and  baked  .beans  puffed 
out ;  the  lights  were  bright ;  the  ragged  waiter- 
girls  were  flaunting  to  and  fro  ;  a  new  one  in  a 
yellow  dress  had  Nixy's  tables.  Jeb  himself 
2*  c 


34  Hedged  In. 

stood  behind  the  cigar-counter,  casting  accounts 
on  his  thumb-nail. 

Nixy  folded  her  shawl  closely,  so  that  Jeb 
could  not  see  the  child,  and  ventured  in.  The 
girls  saw  her  before  Jeb  did,  and  laughed.  Nixy 
stood  still  and  trembled  with  sudden  shame.  It 
had  not  occurred  to  her  before  that  anybody 
could  laugh  at  a  thing  so  miserable  as  she  felt 
herself  to  be.  She  hated  the  girls  for  it;  she 
did  not  believe  that  Jeb  would  laugh. 

Jeb  did  not ;  I  must  say  that  for  him.  When 
he  saw  her,  looking  over  his  thumb-nail  at  last, 
he  swore  at  her  good-naturedly,  which  was  far 
more  Christian. 

But  when  Nixy  begged  him  to  take  her  back 
he  shook  his  head. 

"  Can't  do  it !  What  do  them  bills  say  ? "  — 
he  pointed  to  the  door,  where  his  bills  of  fare  flut 
tered  in  the  dark,  like  the  ghosts  of  good  din 
ners,  Nixy  thought,  —  "  '  .A^-spectable  /ktf-class 
dining-saloon  for  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the 
cheapest  kind.  Meals  at  all  hours  aristocratic  ! ' 
That  's  what  it  says.  Business  is  business ! 
Won't  do.  Gave  your  place  to  that  yellow  gal 
next  day." 


M.  Jacques.  35 

"  But  I  must  go  somewhere  ! "  pleaded  Nixy. 
"I  must  have  things  to  eat,  you  know,  and 
clothes  —  and  things  ! " 

She  had  really  expected  Jeb  to  take  her  ;  her 
voice  broke  into  a  sharp  cry. 

"  Sorry  for  V  said  Jeb ;  "  but  it 's  no  use. 
Fact  is,  Mis'  Smith  would  n't  hear  on  it ;  an'  it 
would  n't  do  for  me  to  be  crossin'  of  her  wishes 
and  desires  decided,  ye  see.  Mis'  Smith  's  a  par- 
tikkelar  woman  when  her  mind  is  sot.  Ye  'd 
better  go,  Nix,  afore  the  customers  sees  you." 

Nixy  went  slowly  out,  with  all  the  little  ghosts 
of  dead  dinners  fluttering  about  her  head,  and 
the  girl  in  yellow  curiously  peering  under  her 
shawl.  She  seemed  to  be  somewhat  bewildered  ; 
walked  up  and  down  in  a  vague  way,  past  the 
smaller  concert-saloon  and  the  tobacconist's,  final 
ly  sat  down  stupidly  on  the  pavement,  just  where 
she  happened  to  be  when  the  idea  struck  her. 

"  Can  there  be  ?  —  can  there  be  ? 

Mercy  still  — 
At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  —  " 

The  little  guitar-maker  seemed  to  be  practising 
in  her  very  ears  ;  she  had  not  known  before  that 
she  was  under  his  windows. 


36  Hedged  In. 

"  Can  there  be  — 

Mercy  still  ? 

—  C'est  1'amour,  1'amour,  1'amour, 
Que  fait  le  monde  a  la  ronde  ! 
—  At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  —  " 

"Jacques  's  drunk,"  said  somebody,  with  a 
laugh,  at  Nixy's  side.  Nixy  knew  better  ; 
Jacques  never  got  drunk  before  Thanksgiving. 
She  moved  indignantly  away  from  Moll,  —  for  it 
was  Moll,  —  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  guitar- 
maker's  door. 

"  He  's  only  practising,"  she  said,  absently. 
She  was  wishing  that  Moll  would  go  away. 
As  she  did  not,  Nixy  pushed  open  the  guitar- 
shop  door,  and  shut  it  closely  behind  her.  M. 
Jacques,  in  the  middle  of  his  favorite  dirge, 
started  and  stared  as  she  came  into  the  light 
from  his  low  oil  lamp. 

M.  Jacques  was  a  little  man,  with  a  well- 
brushed  red  wig,  worn  in  spots  on  top,  very 
black  boots,  patched,  and  cleansed  pink  gloves ; 
the  gloves  he  drew  on,  as  he  always  did  when 
not  at  work,  and  he  had  laid  aside  his  instrument 
at  sight  of  Nixy. 

M.  Jacques  believed  in  three  things,  —  Rous- 


M.  Jacques.  3| 

seau,  woman,  and  his  guitar.  His  faith,  like  his 
fancy,  was  a  pot-pourri ;  the  same  inventive 
stroke  which  welded  odd  meanings  into  his 
splintered  songs  wrought  from  his  ragged  creed 
a  species  of  chrysalis  Christianity,  of  that  kind  |\ 
which  a  man  himself  is  the  last  to  detect  in  I-  ) 

.  — . j 

himself. 

Nixy  liked  M.  Jacques,  partly  because  he  was 
an  old  man  and  a  pure  one,  partly  because,  when 
he  sang  to  her,  she  forgot  that  she  lived  in  Thick 
et  Street.  M.  Jacques  liked  Nixy  because  she 
sat  still  when  he  played,  because  she  was  pretty, 
and  because  he  was  sorry  for  her.  He  was  fond 
of  testing  a  new  song  on  her,  when  she  dropped 
in  of  an  evening,  —  struck  lights  through  her  as 
.  if  she  had  been  a  transparency.  When  she  had 
gone,  he  prayed  "  the  Soul  of  Nature,"  or  "  the 
Spirit  of  the  Whole,"  to  shield  the  girl  ;  though, 
to  be  sure,  he  called  it  philosophizing,  not  prayer. 

"  I  've  come  to  say  good  by,"  said  Nixy, 
"and  — "  In  the  middle  of  her  sentence  the 
baby  cried. 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  said  the  old  man,  gravely. 

Nixy  unfolded  the  shawl,  and  laid  the  child 
across  the  guitar-maker's  patched  knees.  M. 


3  8  Hedged  In. 

Jacques  had  spoken  so  gently  that  her  startled 
color  fled  quietly  away.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  she  had  touched  the  little  thing  without  a 
sense  of  shame  and  horror  which  choked  her. 

"  Jeb  would  n't  take  me  back,"  she  explained, 
"  and  so  we  're  going  away,  —  me  and  it,  you 
know." 

"  Ma  foi !     Going  where  ?  " 

Jacques  gave  the  child  back  to  her,  and  wiped 
his  eyes. 

"I  —  don't  know."  She  gave  the  old  answer, 
with  the  old  frightened  look.  "There  must  be 
somewheres  to  go  to.  There  must  be  folks  that 
'ud  take  us  in.  I  don't  think  I  'm  so  very  bad, 
Jacques.  There  must  be  somewheres." 

She  turned  to  go,  wrapping  the  baby  up  in  her 
shawl  again,  for  it  was  growing  late,  and  it  was 
according  to  her  plan  to  be  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  streaked  doctor  and  the  'sylum,  with 
"hours  for  things,"  to-morrow. 

The  little  Frenchman,  coughing  acutely,  de 
tained  her,  while  he  hunted  for  a  moment  in  the 
drawer  behind  his  counter.  This  was  rather  to 
command  himself  than  to  find  money,  for  all  that 
he  had  was  in  his  pocket.  All  that  was  in  his 


M.  Jacques.  39 

pocket  he  offered  her,  with  something  of  the 
hesitation  you  might  exhibit  in  transacting 
money  affairs  in  a  drawing-room.  But  Nixy 
took  it  simply  enough. 

"  If  one  were  guitar-maker  to  the  Empereur, 
one  could  double  it  —  double  it  ! "  said  M. 
Jacques,  meditating.  "  That  is  the  consequence 
of  one  countree  without  1'Empereur  :  there  are 
no  guitars.  And  if  Dahlia  —  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Nixy.  She  had  heard  so  often 
about  1'Empereur  and  the  dead  Dahlia  — 
Jacques's  young  wife,  who  died,  with  Jacques's 
young  guitar  business,  in  the  Rue  Richelieu  — 
she  knew  it  quite  by  heart. 

"  If  it  were  that  Dahlia  were  but  here ! " 
sighed  M.  Jacques,  "you  would  not  find  the 
need  to  go  from  me  in  this  dark  —  Ugh  ! "  as 
Nixy  opened  the  door,  "  it  is  tres  dark !  Well, 
well !  She  was  one  femme  tres  blanche ;  she 
could  well  afford  to  cry  over  a  little  girl  like 
you." 

Nixy,  as  she  wrung  his  pink  kid  glove,  was 
crying  hard  enough  over  herself.  The  little 
warm  shop,  and  the  guitar,  and  the  songs,  and 
the  faint  memory  of  the  "  femme  blanche/' 


4°  Hedged  In. 

seemed  so  safe  !  The  dark,  —  it  was  very  dark 
as  she  first  stepped  outside,  —  and  the  noise  of 
the  rising  wind,  sweeping  up  from  the  harbor, 
gave  her  a  certain  terror  of  herself,  which  was 
worse  than  the  terror  of  another. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  do  know  very  much  !  "  said 
Nixy,  stopping  short,  between  the  guitar-shop 
and  No.  19,  to  take  a  last  look -at  their  lighted 
windows.  An  artist  should  have  met  this  child 
just  then  and  there. 

"That 's  the  truth!" 

Nixy  did  not  know  that  she  had  spoken  aloud, 
till  she  heard  Moll  Manners's  sharp  laugh.  She 
was  vexed  at  meeting  Moll  again,  but  tried  not 
to  show  it ;  she  had  the  feeling  that  she  had  no 
right  to  be  vexed  even  with  Moll,  —  a  new  feel 
ing,  which  gave  her  the  discomfort  of  an  unquiet 
dream. 

Moll  was  standing  in  one  of  those  sharp,  tri 
angular  shadows  in  which  Thicket  Street  abound 
ed  ;  and  it  seemed  to  Nixy,  as  she  looked  at  her, 
that  all  the  drunken  houses,  with  their  roofs 
tipped  over  their  eyes,  were  dancing  dizzily 
about  her. 

"  You  're  in  a  hurry,"  said  Moll,  as  Nixy  moved 
uneasily  to  pass  on. 


M.  Jacques.  41 

"  Yes,"  said  Nixy. 

"  What 's  up  now  ?  " 

«I  —  don't  know." 

"  Worse  for  ye  !  That 's  alwers  the  way.  No 
body  knows.  I  did  n't  know." 

Nixy  made  no  answer,  and  the  two  girls  stood 
for  a  moment  in  silence,  looking  at  each  other 
across  the  sharp  shadow,  into  which  Moll  had 
stepped.  Nixy,  in  the  pause,  noticed  a  little 
scraggly,  dank  chickweed  upon  the  wall  beside 
her,  and  upon  the  pavement,  where  Moll  had 
crushed  it  with  her  foot.  In  the  pause,  too,  the 
opposite  concert-saloon  flung  out  a  burst  of  ugly 
mirth,  and  the  lights  flashed  into  Nixy's  young 
eyes. 

"  Chance  for  ye  there,  mebbe,"  suggested  Moll, 
with  what  she  meant  for  real  good-nature.  Nixy 
had  thought  of  that ;  there  had  been  good  girls 
known  in  concert-halls  ;  one  could  be  what  one 
liked  ;  it  was  easy  work  and  comfortable  pay  ;  it 
looked  warm  behind  the  lights,  and  she  was  grow 
ing  much  chilled  from  standing  in  the  damp  street. 

"  But  I  want  to  stay  honest.  There  must  be 
somewheres  else ! "  This  she  said  with  per 
plexed  alarm  in  her  voice,  and  stepped  away 


42  Hedged  In. 

from  Moll's  sharp  shadow,  and  down  the  street, 
repeating  what  she  had  said  to  Jacques  among 
the  guitars :  — 

"  There  must  be  somewheres  !  There  must  be 
folks !  There  's  honest  things  to  do,  and  I  '11 
hunt  till  I  find  'em  ! " 

"  Ye  '11  hunt  till  ye  die,"  called  Moll  from  her 
shadow.  "Might  as  well  go  to  the  devil  one 
time  as  another  time,  —  for  go  ye  must!" 

Nixy  shuddered.  With  sudden  strength  she 
sprang  away  from  Moll,  from  the  shadow,  from 
the  noise  of  the  concert-hall ;  the  sunken  houses 
reeled  about  her  ;  the  lights  of  No.  19  twinkled 
away  ;  the  guitar-shop  flitted  out  of  sight ;  she 
struck  into  tangled  wharves  and  salt  air  sudden 
ly,  and  stopping,  out  of  breath,  sat  down  to  col 
lect  her  strength. 

Very  faintly  she  could  hear  Monsieur  Jacques's 
guitar  :  — 

"  Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 

It 's  lonely  —  lonely  ! 
O,  the  wind  is  sharp  and  chill 
At  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 

And  it 's  lonely  —  lonely  !  " 

In  a  few  moments,  for  she  was  afraid  to  stay 


M.  Jacques.  43 

where  she  was,  she  weakly  threaded  her  way 
out  from  among  the  oil-barrels  and  codfish,  from 
among  the  wharves  and  shipping,  through  streets 
the  like  of  Thicket  Street,  and  tenements  the 
counterpart  of  No.  19,  with  her  face  set  towards 
the  open  country,  and  her  heart  in  the  ways  of 
those  to  whom  it  is  promised  that  "they  shall 
see  God." 


44  Hedged  In. 


CHAPTER    V. 

MRS.     ZERVIAH    MYRTLE. 

1VTIXY,  so  far  from  thinking  of  God,  was 
crying  impatiently  because  the  baby  was 
heavy,  and  because  every  time  that  she  sat 
down  to  rest  she  seemed  to  hear  Monsieur 
Jacques,  and  the  guitar,  and  the  sorrowful  song 
about  the  hill. 

She  found  herself  obliged  to  rest  very  often  ; 
between  whiles  she  walked  fast,  now  thinking 
that  she  must  put  distance  between  herself  and 
the  doctor's  'sylum ;  now,  between  herself  and 
Moll. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  twelve  o'clock  that  it 
occurred  to  her  that  she  had  nowhere  to  spend 
the  night,  and  that  the  lights  in  the  houses  were 
all  out. 

She  must  have  walked  far  when  she  made  this 
discovery,  —  very  far  for  one  in  her  feeble  con 
dition. 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  45 

The  city  burned  dimly  behind  her,  like  the 
embers  of  a  huge  bonfire  ;  the  cultivated  sub 
urban  country  lay  smooth  and  dark  before  her; 
shades  of  houses  gathered  about  her  ;  shades  of 
trees,  parks,  walls,  finished  and  elegant  things, 
filed  past  her  with  a  shadowy  hauteur.  She 
crept  on  by  them,  chilled  and  frightened,  wonder 
ing  whether  nobody  lived  in  small  houses  without 
the  city,  and  how  many  tenements  there  might 
be  in  such  a  place  as  that  square  house  with  the 
curiously  gabled  roof.  She  ventured  as  far  as 
the  pebbled  drive  that  led  to  it,  and  looked  up 
and  around  timidly  for  encouragement  ;  this  she 
found,  or  thought  she  found,  in  a  bar  of  mellow 
light  which  fell  quivering  upon  the  lawn  from  a 
bay-window  at  the  side  of  the  house  ;  the  sash 
was  raised,  and  a  warmly  tinted  curtain,  stirred  by 
the  wind,  floated  in  and  out.  As  she  stood  look 
ing  up,  very  still  there,  under  the  trimmed  trees, 
in  her  shabby  shawl,  a  sharp  gust  caught  in  the 
bright  damask  that  folded  the  sick-room  (she  had 
concluded  that  it  was  a  sick-room)  from  her  sight, 
and  there  flashed  before  her  a  kaleidoscope  of  soft 
lights,  tints,  glasses,  cushions,  curtains,  and  there 
was  wafted  out  to  her  a  child's  cry.  This  fright- 


46  Hedged  In. 

ened  her,  and  she  crept  softly  away ;  she  began 
to  wish  that  she  had  left  her  child  at  No.  19,  and 
to  wonder,  Would  anybody  take  her  in  with  the 
child  ?  Then,  remembering  her  promise  to  Lize, 
she  "  tried  to  like  it,"  but  succeeded  only  in  pat 
ting  the  little  thing  with  a  desperate  gentleness 
that  woke  and  terrified  it. 

She  plodded  on  for  a  while,  the  child  crying 
across  her  arm,  and  her  weak  limbs  sinking,  in 
hopes  of  finding  another  lighted  window  ;  but 
there  were  no  more.  Exhausted  and  desperate, 
she  crawled,  at  length,  under  the  shadow  of  a 
wooden  gate,  thinking  that  she  would  rest  there, 
or  die  there,  as  chance  might  be,  and  thinking 
(as  all  young  people  think  when  they  are  tired) 
that  she  cared  little  which. 

The  wooden  gate  belonged  to  an  omnibus  sta 
tion  ;  Nixy  discovered  this  presently,  and  as  it 
was  very  cold  where  she  lay,  and  as,  on  the 
whole,  she  might  die  just  as  well  at  another  time, 
she  conceived  the  idea  of  spending  the  night  in 
an  omnibus.  So  she  pushed  the  baby  under  the 
gate,  which  was  locked  ;  and,  being  so  slight  and 
small,  contrived  to  follow  without  much  trouble, 
and  to  climb  into  one  of  the  silent,  empty 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  47 

coaches.  It  was  warm  and  sheltered  there.  She 
flung  herself  down  upon  the  straw,  for  the  dirty 
velvet  cushions  seemed  too  grand  to  sleep  on, 
and  dropped,  probably  at  once,  into  a  heavy 
sleep. 

In  the  morning,  when  driver  No.  23  of  the  Ur 
ban  Line,  rolled  out  his  coach,  a  baby  rolled 
against,  and  very  nearly  out  of,  the  door. 

Nixy,  haggard  and  terrified,  appeared,  and 
picked  it  up. 

"  Land  of  Liberty ! "  said  No.  23.  He  was 
over  six  feet,  with  fierce  whiskers,  and  voice  in 
proportion. 

"Yes,"  said  Nixy,  "I'll  go  right  away.  I 
meant  to  go  away  before  you  came.  I  did  n't 
mean  any  harm.  But  nobody  liked  to  take  me 
in,  you  see,  —  and  it  was  past  midnight.  I  '11  go 
right  away  !  " 

"  S'pose  I  'd  ought  to  report  you  as  a  vagrant, 
no  two  sides  to  that  /"  replied  23.  But  he  fell  to 
musing  behind  his  beard. 

"  How  old  be  ye  now  ?  " 

"Not  sixteen." 

"  Got  any  folks  ?  " 

"No." 


4-8  Hedged  In. 

"  Got  anywheres  to  go  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Go  there,  then,  for  all  me!"  thundered  23, 
turning  his  back.  "  Clear  out  quick,  and  I  '11 
let  ye  alone." 

Nixy  "  cleared." 

In  the  frost  of  the  early  morning  she  wan 
dered  about  for  a  while,  till  the  smoke;  in  little 
blue  coils,  screwed  holes  in  a  silver  sky,  and  bare 
footed  children  began  to  group  in  the  chilly  sun 
light,  and  odors  of  crisp  muffins  and  coffee  fed 
the  wind. 

Nixy  knew  better  than  to  ask  for  breakfast, 
with  such  a  burden  as  she  carried  in  her 
arms,  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  houses  whose 
haughty  shadows  had  repelled  her  on  her  mid 
night  tramp.  Any  one  observing  her  closely 
would  have  noticed  that  she  selected  rather 
a  shabby  street,  and,  all  things  considered,  the 
shabbiest  dwelling  in  it,  for  her  errand.  It 
is  one  of  the  whims,  or  instincts,  of  the  poor, 
to  beg  favors  of  their  kind.  It  is  also  one 
of  their  whims,  perhaps  a  foreign  fancy  which 
Yankee  pride  has  adopted,  never  to  seem  hun 
gry  under  a  stranger's  roof.  So  Nixy,  knock- 


OF   THE 


Mrs.  Zerviah  MyrtU^  49 


ing  timidly,  and,  bidden  by  a  busy 
man  in  a  busy  voice  to  enter,  asked  leave  to 
warm  her  feet,  to  wash  her  hands,  talked  of 
the  weather,  the  walking,  the  town,  saw  a  hot 
breakfast  steam  before  her  dizzy  eyes  ;  saw  the 
room  whirl,  felt  the  words  slip  ;  sat  up  straight 
and  stiff,  and  dropped  a  dead  weight  faint  upon 
the  floor. 

When  she  came  to  herself,  the  busy  young 
woman  had  hot  tea  at  her  lips  in  a  spoon. 

"  I  never  thought  of  Jacques's  money  !  I  can 
pay  you.  Here  !  "  Nixy's  weak  hands  fumbled 
in  her  pocket.  "  I  suppose  I  was  hungry  ! " 

She  saw  then  that  some  one  had  taken  the 
baby,  and  all  her  faint  face  flushed. 

"  The  child  is  over-young  to  be  travelling," 
said  the  young  woman,  with  a  keen  look. 

"  Yes."  Poor  Nixy  did  not  know  what  else 
to  say. 

"  Four  weeks,  I  should  say,  makin'  guess 
work." 

"  Three,  next  Tuesday." 

The   busy  young  woman    exchanged    glances 
with  the  woman  who  held  the  baby.     She  did 
not   know  whether   to    be  most    scandalized    or 
3  D 


5°  Hedged  In. 

most  compassionate  ;  her  answer  was  indicative 
of  her  state  of  mind. 

"  Humph  !     Travelled  far  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It  must  be  some  ways.  I  'm 
a  little  tired." 

She  was  probably  a  "little  tired"  still,  when 
she  started,  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  to 
go.  It  seemed,  when  the  opening  of  the  door 
brought  the  fresh  air  upon  her,  that  she  would 
faint  again  ;  but  she  shut  her  white  lips  to 
gether  ;  she  did  not  mean  to  die  —  for  she  had 
never  fainted  before,  and  supposed  herself  to 
be  dying  —  in  anybody's  house  ;  in  the  open 
air  and  under  the  open  sky  she  felt  as  if  she 
might  have  the  right  to  commit  so  rude  a 
blunder. 

She  wished,  as  she  went  out,  holding  dizzily  by 
chairs  and  fences,  that  she  had  dared  to  ask  in 
the  house  for  work.  The  busy  young  woman 
took  money  for  her  breakfast,  for  she  was  poor 
as  well  as  busy,  and  stood  looking  after  her  at 
the  door. 

"  Nothing  but  a  child  herself !  "  —  uneasily 
said.  "  Though,  to  be  sure,  what  can  one  do  ? " 

What  could  one  do  ?    Other  busy  people  asked 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  51 

themselves  the  uneasy  question,  as  Nixy  wan 
dered  about  the  streets,  white  and  frightened, 
through  the  day. 

One  woman  beckoned  her  back  after  she  had 
turned  her  from  the  door,  questioned  her  much, 
and  cried  over  her  a  little  ;  but  when  her  own 
child,  a  little  girl,  bounded  in  from  somewhere, 
she  sent  Nixy  hurriedly  away. 

"  I  would  rather  Clara  should  not  see  you,  if 
you  '11  excuse  me." 

"  I  would  n't  hurt  her,"  said  Nixy,  stopping 
upon  the  steps  after  the  door  had  closed.  She 
spoke  to  herself,  in  some  perplexity,  and  with 
perplexed  eyes  she  walked  away. 

At  another  house,  where  she  asked  for  work, 
and  where  "  they  could  n't  think  of  the  child," 
they  compassionately  offered  her  dinner  and 
rest.  These  she  accepted  —  as  she  accepted 
everything  that  happened  —  with  little  surprise 
and  few  words. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  wicked  you  've 
been,"  suggested  the  lady  of  the  house,  anxious, 
in  the  only  way  that  presented  itself  to  her  vivid 
invention,  to  "reform"  the  girl. 

"Yes,"  said  Nixy,  in  her  unhappy,  unmeaning 


5  2  Hedged  In, 

way.  She  was  wondering  where  she  should  spend 
the  night. 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  —  you  so  young  !  " 

"  Yes." 

rt  Do  you  mean  to  be  a  better  girl  ?  " 

"Oyes." 

"  It  will  be  very  hard,  —  with  the  child." 

"  Yes." 

The  lady  looked  at  her,  puzzled. 

"  I  doubt  if  she  understands  a  thing  I  say." 

But  she  was  mistaken.  Nixy  had  perfectly 
understood  and  would  remember  her  last  remark. 
She  was  growing  very  tired  of  the  child. 

At  another  place,  to  which  she  had  been  di 
rected,  she  was  told  at  the  door,  and  the  door 
was  shut  with  the  words  :  — 

"  We  wanted  a  girl  —  about  your  size,  but  not 
a  baby." 

So,  by  degrees,  the  baby  became  horrible. 

About  dusk,  after  a  weary  afternoon,  she 
stopped  at  the  dip  of  a  little  hilly  street,  and  in 
the  shadow  of  a  little  dark  yard  that  guarded  a 
bright  little  house,  to  rest. 

The  master  of  the  house,  whistling  his  way 
home  to  supper,  stumbled  across  her  with  the 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  53 

child  in  her  arms,  and  her  head  laid  stupidly 
back  against  a  tree.  When  he  saw  her  he 
said,  — 

"  This  is  a  land  of  liberty  ! "  —  for  it  was  No. 
23.  He  tried  to  lift  her  up,  but  dropped  her  as 
if  she  had  been  porcelain,  "and  thundered  for 
"  Marthy  !  Marthy  Ann  !  "  —  he  had  a  voice  like 
the  Last  Trump  ;  but  the  summons  to  "  Mar 
thy"  disturbed  Nixy  far  more  than  the  noise. 
She  had  grown  very  much  afraid  of  her  own 
kind.  Men  swore  at  her  generally,  discouraged 
her  always,  but  they  asked  no  questions.  Women 
had  held  her  on  a  slow  toasting-fork  of  curiosity 
all  day. 

So  she  said  to  23  as  she  had  said  before,  "  I  '11 
go  right  away  !  " 

But  Marthy  Ann  (she  was  a  little  woman)  had 
come  out  of  the  bright  little  house,  and  drawn 
Nixy  in  from  the  little  dark  yard ;  she  had  a 
warm  hand  and  a  silent  tongue,  and  the  girl 
submitted  to  her  leading. 

"  Lord  help  her  !  "  said  the  little  woman,  when 
she  had  got  her  into  the  light.  What  was  quite 
as  much  to  the  point,  she  kept  her  for  the 
night. 


54  Hedged  In. 

She  could  not  give  her  a  bed,  —  the  house  was 
far  too  small  for  that,  —  but  she  rolled  her  up  on 
a  cosey  lounge  by  the  bright  kitchen  fire.  All  the 
house  was  cosey,  and  all  the  house  was  bright. 
There  was  a  baby  somewhere,  and  she  could  hear 
Marthy  Ann,  in  snatches,  singing  and  fondling 
this  baby,  and  No.  23  whistling  and  fondling 
Marthy.  She  thought,  listening  from  her  lounge, 
that  it  must  be  a  very  happy  house. 

Something  less  than  an  idea,  and  more  than  a 
notion,  came  for  the  first  time  to  the  Thicket 
Street  girl,  of-  the  pure  loves  of  wife  and  mother. 
She  sat  up  straight  upon  her  lounge  to  hear  the 
whole  of  Marthy's  song. 

"If  I  was  like  that?  she  said,  half  aloud, 
"  mebbe  I  'd  like  the  baby  without  trying." 

But  she  was  not  like  that ;  it  was  quite  cer 
tain  that  she  was  not  like  that. 

She  lay  down  again  and  shut  her  eyes.  Pres 
ently  she  opened  them  suddenly.  23  and  Mar 
thy  Ann  —  in  bed  and  half  asleep  —  were  talk 
ing  of  her. 

"  If  it  was  n't.  for  the  child  there  'd  be  chances." 

"  Chances  enough.     It 's  a  likely  girl." 

"  Now  there  was  Celia  Bean.     You  remember 


Mrs.  Zerviak  Myrtle.  55 

Celia  ?  The  baby 's  the  mischief  of  it.  I  'm  so 
glad  I  had  that  lounge  ! " 

Marthy,  soon  asleep,  forgot  her  words.  Nixy 
sat  up  still  and  straight,  and  pondered  them  in 
her  heart. 

The  baby  was  the  mischief  of  it !  Was  there, 
then,  no  way  in  which  she  could  be  the  baby's 
honest  mother  ?  She  felt  a  little  pity  for  the 
child,  and  patted  it  softly.  But  she  felt  more 
pity  for  herself,  as  was  natural  under  the  cir 
cumstances. 

What  with  this  pity,  and  the  dead  of  night, 
and  weakness  and  misery  and  fear,  Nixy  con 
cluded,  sitting  there  on  Marthy's  lounge,  that  it 
was  about  time  to  be  rid  of  the  baby. 

By  the  light  of  Marthy's  cooking-stove,  she 
crept  down  from  her  lounge,  and  found  the 
kitchen  door.  She  unlocked  and  unlatched  it 
without  noise,  and  then,  upon  the  threshold, 
stopped.  After  some  thought,  she  returned  to 
the  fire,  and,  kneeling  down  upon  the  floor, 
held  the  infant  up  for  a  moment  in  the  dying 
light.  Her  face  exhibited  no  trace  of  grief  or 
love ;  some  puzzled  regret  and  a  little  compas 
sion,  but  nothing  besides. 


56  Hedged  In. 

"  Lize  was  right,"  she  thought,  —  and  thought 
no  more  ;  "  he  will  take  after  me  when  he  's  big 
enough.  The  poor  little  fellow  !  " 

She  made  as  though  she  would  have  kissed 
him,  but  the  inevitable  sudden  loathing,  or  some 
thing  else,  prevented  her.  She  drew  the  child 
under  her  shawl  again,  and,  closing  Marthy's 
door  very  softly  behind  her,  went  away  with 
him  into  the  chilly  autumn  night, 

Nixy  had  no  thought  of  murder.  She  was  not 
old  enough  or  melodramatic  enough  for  that.  To 
be  rid  of  the  child  was  a  simple  matter  ;  to  live 
without  him  a  simpler.  She  knew  something 
of  deserted  children  and  foundling  homes,  —  she 
had  not  lived  fifteen  years  in  Thicket  Street  for 
nothing.  It  occurred  to  her,  as  she  glided  along, 
like  an  uneasy  ghost,  through  the  silent  and  sleep 
ing  town,  dodging  police  and  street-lamps,  to 
leave  her  little  boy  in  the  curiously  gabled  house 
with  the  wonderful  room.  It  made  very  little 
difference  to  her  where  she  left  him  ;  there  was 
this  house ;  it  saved  trouble,  and  was  near  at 
hand.  Possibly  she  had  some  dim  idea,  that,  for 
the  sake  of  their  own  new  baby,  the  people  in 
the  happy  house  would  take  some  pains  to  be 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  57 

kind  to  hers  ;  for  she  would  rather  like  to  have 
him  well  treated,  —  it  was  not  his  fault  that  no 
body  wanted  her. 

At  any  rate,  with  the  thought  she  had  found 
the  house.  She  knew  it  easily,  for  the  sick-lamp 
was  still  burning  in  the  bright  room,  and  the 
wind  was  tossing  the  curtain  in  and  out ;  and 
with  the  sight  of  the  house,  her  mind  settled 
apathetically  into  the  plan.  The  child  had 
grown  so  heavy!  The  world  was  growing  so 
cruel !  One  place  was  like  another.  Her  arms 
ached.  Why  seek  farther  ? 

We  talk  of  "instinctive  maternal  affection."  I 
cannot  learn  that  Nixy,  when  she  left  her  child, 
with  a  violent  pull  at  the  door-bell,  upon  the 
massive  steps  of  the  gabled  house,  experienced 
any  other  than  emotions  of  relief.  To  be  sure, 
when  the  child's  little  fingers  fumbled  feebly  over 
her  face,  she  thought  that  his  hands  were  soft, 
thought  of  Marthy  and  her  baby,  wondered  who 
Celia  Bean  was,  and  what  happened  to  her,  and 
so  was  reminded  of  23,  and  of  being  reported  as 
a  vagrant,  and  that  it  was  quite  time  to  be  away. 
With  little  regret  she  kissed  her  child,  —  for  the 
first  time  and  the  last.  With  nothing  more  posi- 


58  Hedged  hi. 

tive  either  way  than  a  dull  sense  of  comfort,  she 
folded  her  shawl  about  her  empty  arms,  and  stole 
off  down  the  pebbled  drive,  into  the  wide,  empty, 
solitary  street.  She  had  done  by  her  own  flesh 
and  blood  as  the  world  had  done  by  her.  It 
seemed  to  this  poor  little  mother  rather  a  fair 
arrangement  than  otherwise. 

t)nly,  when  half  a  mile  away  from  the  child, 
she  stopped  and  thought  of  Lize. 

"  But  I  kep'  my  promise,"  she  said,  looking 
troubled,  for  she  did  not  like  to  break  a  promise 
to  Lize.  "  I  kep'  it.  I  tried  to  like  him.  But 
there's  nowheres,  no  folks.  What  could  we  do  ?  " 
She  fell  to  sobbing,  —  thinking  of  Lize,  —  she 
was  so  weak  from  walking,  and  homesick,  and 
alone  ;  she  wished  that  she  were  back  in  No.  19 
upon  the  straw;  wished  that  she  had  gone,  as 
Moll  advised,  into  the  concert-hall ;  wished  that 
she  could  see  Monsieur  Jacques ;  wished  that 
she  had  stayed  among  "  her  folks,"  —  meaning 
Thicket  Street.  When  one  has  no  family,  one 
adopts  a  county,  a  cause,  an  alley,  as  the  case 
may  be.  It  seemed  to  Nixy,  in  her  desperate 
mood,  to  be  a  great  mistake  that  she  had  ever 
undertaken  this  dreary  attempt  at  "  staying  hon- 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  59 

est."  Why  should  she  be  better  than  her  kind  ? 
In  Thicket  Street,  at  least,  she  was  at  home.  In 
this  world  of  pure  men  and  women  she  was  be 
wildered,  lost. 

So,  gloomily  thinking,  she  travelled  the  coun 
try  up  and  down  for  a  couple  of  miserable  days. 
She  seldom  consciously  missed  her  child,  except 
ing  with  a  sense  of  relief ;  yet  the  weight  of  the 
little  thing,  gone  from  her  empty  arms,  burdened 
her  heart  at  times  in  a  dull  way.  He  had  been 
some  company. 

She  never  went  back  to  23  and  Marthy  Ann, — 
not  daring  to  without  the  child  ;  she  was  quite  out 
of  the  region  by  daylight.  In  her  confused  condi-* 
tion,  however,  she  must  have  trodden  a  circle  like 
a  lost  traveller  in  a  forest,  for,  on  the  third  day, 
faint  and  discouraged,  —  JacquesV  money  all 
gone  and  the  girl's  brave  heart  too,  —  she  was 
seen  climbing  the  pebbled  slope  to  the  curiously 
gabled  house  which  had  attracted  her  twice  be 
fore.  That  was  at  dead  of  night ;  now,  in  fair 
sunlight,  and  blinded  by  exhaustion,  she  did  not 
know  the  place. 

"  Do  you  know  of  anybody  as  wants  a  girl  ? " 

She  asked    the  old  question  stupidly,  looking 


60  Hedged  In. 

for  the  old  answer.  As  it  happened,  "  Mis'  Myr 
tle  was  hard  up  for  help,"  and,  to  her  surprise, 
Nixy  was  bidden  to  enter,  and  sent  to  the  mis 
tress  of  the  mansion  for  inspection. 

The  lady  was  in  her  bedroom,  and  a  little  pink 
cradle  stood  by  her  side.  On  the  threshold  of  the 
chamber  Nixy  stopped  short.  She  recognized 
the  slow,  soft  curtain,  the  light  bay-window,  pic 
tures,  pillows,  and  the  wailing  cry  of  the  "  won 
derful  room." 

The  frightened  color  rushed  to  her  face.  She 
peered  into  corners,  expecting  to  be  confronted 
by  her  deserted  child,  turned  and  would  have 
%fled,  but  Mrs.  Myrtle  —  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle,  by 
the  way,  she  was  commonly  called  —  detained 
her  sharply. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me !  I  won't  hurt  you. 
Besides,  you  let  the  air  in  on  Baby.  There,  — 
stand  where  I  can  see  you.  I  suppose  some  one 
directed  you  here  ?  I  Ve  had  such  a  time  get 
ting  girls ! " 

"  So  I  heard,"  said  Nixy,  roused  now,  and 
shrewd. 

"  I  want  a  girl,"  continued  Mrs.  Myrtle,  rais 
ing  her  head,  —  it  was  a  handsome  head,  fresh 


Mrs.  Zerviak  Myrtle.  61 

from  the  crimping-irons  of  her  maid,  — "  to 
take  steps  for  me,  and  help  nurse,  and  all  that  ; 
to  make  herself  useful  wherever  and  whenever 
wanted  ;  to  keep  herself  tidy,  and  not  run  about 
evenings.  I  have  such  a  time  with  my  girls  ! 
Why  did  you  leave  your  last  place  ? " 

"  Family  moved  West,"  said  Nixy,  feeling  her 
way  with  care.  .«. 

"  You  came  from  town  ? " 

Nixy  nodded,  in  no  haste  to  commit  herself 
by  many  words.  Not  that  she  objected  to  telling 
a  lie,  —  why  should  she  ?  —  but  that  she  preferred 
to  tell  a  good  one. 

The  amount  of  it  was  —  for  when  Nixy  had 
become  convinced  that  there  was  but  one  child 
in  the  room,  she  and  her  story  both  appeared  to 
advantage  —  that  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle  engaged 
her  services. 

"  Age,  under  sixteen. 

"  Temper,  amiable. 

"  Common-school  education. 

"  Seen  service  before. 

"  Lost  her  recommendations. 

"  Respectable  family  connection. 

"  Widowed  mother  —  " 


62  Hedged  In. 

Mrs.  Myrtle  ran  over  the  notes  which  she  had 
taken  of  Nixy's  conversation. 

"  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I  will  try  you.  Though 
I  do  object  to  your  having  lost  your  recommenda 
tions.  Nobody  ever  has  such  a  time  with  girls 
as  I !  And  there  's  no  knowing  whom  you  may 
take  in.  The  number  of  tramps  about  is  alarm 
ing.  It  cannot  be  three  days  —  is  it,  nurse  ?  — 
since  Boggs  picked  up  that  baby  on  our  steps. 
It  made  me  so  nervous  and  depressed  !  I  have 
n't  got  over  it  yet.  I  am  sure  I  thought  I  should 
be  forced  to  send  for  the  doctor  again,  though  I 
don't  think  Doctor  Burtis  has  the  least  compre 
hension  of  NERVES  !  Boggs  took  the  child  to  the 
Burley  Street  Nursery,  —  an  excellent  place.  But 
such  a  thing  never  happened  on  my  premises 
before,  —  never  !  It  was  so  sad  and  depressing  ! 
Yes,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I  will  try  you." 

"  Depressing  as  it  is,"  Mrs.  Myrtle  explained  to 
her  husband,  "  to  take  an  unknown  girl  into  the 
family,  especially  a  girl  with  no  more  constitution 
for  housework  than  this  one  has,  —  I  cannot 
send  her  up  stairs  but  she  loses  her  breath  in 
a  very  unpleasant  manner,  —  I  wish  to  make  a 
faithful  and  patient  trial  of  it.  I  have  so  few 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  63 

opportunities  of  active  usefulness,  confined  as  I 
am  with  the  children  and  my  nervous  condition, 
that  I  really  feel  it,  in  one  sense,  a  duty  to  try 
the  girl.  I  see  nothing  bad  about  her  so  far,  and 
she  is  willing  about  taking  steps,  which,  in  my 
weak  state,  is  a  great  thing.  I  think  I  shall  take 
real  comfort  in  giving  her  a  comfortable  home." 

Nixy  remained  in  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle's  "  com 
fortable  home  "  two  weeks. 

On  a  Sabbath  morning  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
Mrs.  Myrtle  went  to  church.  The  day  was  superb, 
the  carriage  recushioned,  her  recovery  complete, 
her  baby  well,  her  bonnet  and  prayer-book  new.^ 
She  patted  Nixy  on  the  head  as  she  swept  smil 
ing  out  of  the  door,  and  bade  her  take  the  air  on 
the  lawn  with  one  of  the  little  girls,  —  she  was 
looking  pale  ;  and  Fanny  would  enjoy  it.  Be 
sides,  she  (Nixy)  had,  she  must  say,  been  very 
faithful  since  she  had  been  with  her,  and  she  was 
glad  to  give  her  a  change.  Perhaps  she  could 
manage  to  let  her  out  to  the  evening  service.  It 
was  too  sweet  a  Sunday  to  be  misimproved. 

Nixy  listened  humbly.  If  she  had  not  felt  "  at 
home  "  in  Mrs.  Myrtle's  service,  she  had  at  least 
enjoyed  the  honest  large  work  and  honest  small 


64  Hedged  In. 

pay.  Her  dark  attic  room  was  palatial  to  a  No. 
19  girl ;  her  dinner  (without  desserts)  luxurious  ; 
her  conscience  quiet ;  her  hands  full  ;  her  past 
wellnigh  forgotten  in  the  novelty,  and  her  future 
of  no  consequence  in  the  security. 

In  a  certain  way  she  was  almost  happy,  as  she 
sat  in  the  golden  Sabbath  sun,  waiting,  with 
troublesome  Fanny,  for  her  mistress's  return. 

In  the  Sabbath  sun,  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle  rode 
home  from  the  house  of  God  with  a  black  brow 
and  a  fast  whip.  The  first  thing  that  she  saw 
was  Nixy,  sitting  under  a  tinted  maple-tree,  with 
the  child  Fanny's  arms  about  her  neck.  This 
looked  very  affectionate,  but  it  was  in  fact  very 
uncomfortable.  It  made  a  pretty  picture,  how 
ever,  for  the  light  and  color  gathered  richly  about 
Nixy's  young  face,  which,  however  miserable  or 
pallid,  was  fair,  because  it  was  young.  And 
Mrs.  Myrtle,  just  at  that  moment,  would  have 
preferred  that  the  girl  should  look  ugly ;  it  would 
have  been,  I  think,  a  positive  moral  relief  to  her. 

For  the  lady  had  heard  that  morning,  naturally 
enough,  Nixy's  sorrowful  story. 

Nixy  felt  it  in  the  air,  like  thunder,  before 
Boggs  had  reined  up  at  the  door. 


Mrs.  Zervidh  Myrtle.  65 

"  Fanny  !  "      Mrs.  Myrtle,  perfumed    and  per 
turbed,  prayer-book  in    hand,  and    eyes   on  fire, 
called  her  daughter.     "  Take  down  your  arms  - 
at   once!— from  Nixy's    neck,  and  go  into  the 
house." 

The  little  girl  hesitated  to  obey,  and  her  moth 
er,  with  some  emphasis,  herself  removed  the  of 
fending  hands  from  Nixy's  shoulders;  in  so 
doing,  by  accident,  something  hit  Nixy  a  sharp 
blow  upon  the  cheek  ;  it  proved  to  be  the  edge 
of  the  prayer-book,  —  a  rich  one  in  full  calf. 
"  What  a  pity  !  " 

"  You  did  not  hurt  me,"  said  Nixy. 
The  lady  colored.     She  had   been    examining 
the  dented   leather  when  she   spoke  ;    but  upon 
Nixy's  "accepting  the   apology"  so  simply,  she 
remained  silent. 

She  remained  silent  long  enough  to  speak  per 
haps  more  calmly  than  she  might  otherwise  have 

done. 

"  This  is  a  dreadful  story  which  I  hear  of  you, 
Nixy.  It  has  really  made  me  ill." 

Nixy  folded  her  hands  and  leaned  back  against 
the  maple-tree.  She  did  not  much  care  what 
happened  next. 


66  Hedged  In. 

"  I  mean  that  you  were  seen,  —  I  heard  it  twice 
this  morning,  —  that  you  were  seen  a  fortnight 
ago,  in  the  streets  of  this  town,  with  an  infant  in 
your  arms.  It  is  of  no  use  to  deny  it,  so  many 
people  saw  you.  I  hear  it  upon  the  best  of  au 
thority.  It  must  be  true." 

"  I  suppose  you  sent  it  to  the  Burley  Street 
Nursery." 

To  Mrs.  Myrtle's  exceeding  surprise,  Nixy 
made  this  answer. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  !  I  am  glad  that  you  confess 
it  with  so  little  trouble.  But  you  lied  to  me." 

"  O  yes.  I  wanted  honest  work.  You  would  n't 
have  taken  me,  ma'am,  if  I  'd  told  you  the  truth." 

«  No,"  —  Mrs.  Myrtle  looked  undecided  whether 
to  feel  rebuked  or  flattered,  —  "  no,  of  course  not. 
With  my  family,  of  course  not.  And  of  course 
I  must  dismiss  you  at  once." 

"  Of  course,"  repeated  Nixy,  languidly.  She 
had  learned  enough  of  the  pure  world  now  to 
know  that.  She  sat  very  still,  with  the  happy 
light  from  the  maple  dotting  her  dress  and  hair 
in  a  mocking,  miserable  manner. 

"  This  is  so  dreadful  and  depressing  !  "  sighed 
Mrs.  Myrtle,  after  an  uneasy  silence. 


Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  67 

"Shall  I  go  to-night?"  asked  Nixy. 

«  Well  —  not  to-night,  perhaps  ;  but  to-mor 
row  early.  With  my  family  of  innocent  children 
I  cannot  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  keep  you  under  my 
roof." 

"  I  'd  rather  go  to-night,"  said  Nixy.  "  I  would 
n't  want  to  hurt  the  children."  She  was  too 
much  disheartened  to  be  bitter;  she  spoke 
quietly  enough,  but  Mrs.  Myrtle  looked  dully 
disturbed. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  hurry  you  away  —  into  mis 
chief.  I  suppose  you  can  reform,  and  be  better, 
and  all  that.  If  it  were  n't  for  the  children  — 
but  how  could  I  feel  it  to  be  right  to  put  my 
Fanny  under  your  influence  ?  I  would  consult 
with  Mr.  Myrtle  about  it,  if  there  were  any 
chance  that  we  could  think  it  best.  We  could 
not,  you  see,  sacrifice  our  own  offspring  to  your 
reformation,^  though  it  would  be  very  Christian 
and  beautiful.  So  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  do 
more  than  to  forgive  you  for  your  ingratitude 
in  so  dreadfully  deceiving  me  ;  which  I  do." 

"Thank  you,"  said  listless  Nixy. 

"  And  to  beg  of  you  to  consider  that  there  is 
hope  for  us  all,"  —  Mrs.  Myrtle  spoke  with  hu- 


68 


Hedged  In. 


mility,  — "  for   us   all,  in    the  way   of  salvation, 
which  our  Lord  has  marked  out  for  sinners." 

If  the  lady  had  referred  to  a  way  of  salvation 
from  the  frosty  night,  from  the  hungry  morning, 
from  the  wandering  week,  which  Nixy,  sitting 
under  the  warm  maple-tree,  vividly  foresaw,  and 
from  which,  in  her  silence,  she  was  shrinking 
with  a  very  sick  young  heart,  the  girl  might,  I 
must  own,  have  paid  better  heed  to  the  advice. 
Nixy  knew  little  about  heaven,  cared  less  ;  earth 
.was  as  much  as  she  could  manage  just  then. 
She  glanced  at  the  dented  prayer-book,  and  won 
dered,  in  a  mixed  thought  of  how  she  should 
carry  her  clothes,  and  whether  she  should  go 
back  to  Thicket  Street,  if  the  Lord  had  told 
Mrs.  Myrtle,  in  his  house  that  day,  to  send  her 
away  for  fear  of  Fanny  ;  and  if  he  cared  so  much 
more  for  Fanny  than  for  her.  It  was  natural 
that  he  should.  She  only  wondered  about  it, 
speculatively. 

"  I  must  do  my  duty,  you  know,"  urged  Mrs. 
Myrtle,  uneasily.  "  It  is  not  want  of  Christian 
sympathy  which  compels  me  to  dismiss  you.  I 
have  always  been  much  interested  in  women  of 
your  class.  When  my  health  permits,  I  have 


Mrs.  Zerviak  Myrtle.  69 

gone  to  the  Magdalen  Home  twice  a  month  to 
cut  out  work.  That  is  a  very  interesting  and 
Christian  retreat.  I  wonder  you  never  thought 
of  going  there.  I  could  easily  —  " 

"  I  should  like  to  go  away  now,  if  you  please." 

Nixy  spoke  and  rose  hurriedly,  visions  of 
Dr.  Burtis  and  the  'sylum  passing  with  the  old 
terror  before  her. 

"  I  'd  like  to  go  now,  without  waiting,  Mrs. 
Myrtle." 

"  Stay  till  afternoon,"  urged  Mrs.  Myrtle,  un 
comfortably.  "I  don't  mean  to  be  severe  with 
you.  You  make  me  so  nervous,  hurrying  mat 
ters  in  this  manner  !  If  it  were  n't  for  the  chil 
dren  —  " 

But  Nixy  had  stepped  out  from  the  rich 
warmth  of  the  maple's  light,  and  was,  as  the 
lady  spoke,  crossing  the  darker  shadows  of  the 
lawn,  on  her  way  to  the  kitchen  door. 

Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle,  searching  for  the  girl  with 
troubled  face,  immediately  after  her  noon  nap, 
discovered  that  she  had  already  gone. 

"  Nothing  could  give  me  more  pleasure  in  my 
circumscribed  field  of  usefulness,"  she  confided  to 
Mr.  Myrtle,  "  than  to  help  such  girls,  —  in  their 


70  Hedged  In. 

places,  you  know ;  but  when  it  comes  to  receiv 
ing  them,  under  circumstances,  too,  of  aggravated 
deception,  into  one's  own  family,  I  feel  that  there 
are  domestic  duties  which  have  sacred  prior 
claims.  I  would,  on  reflection,  have  kept  her  un 
til  Monday,  and  have  done  what  little  I  could  for 
her  ;  but  she  got  vexed  with  me,  —  such  girls  are 
always  getting  vexed,  —  and  left,  I  believe,  with 
out  her  dinner.  I  don't  think  that  any  one  ap 
preciates  how  depressing  the  affair  has  been  ! " 


"Staying  Honest?  71 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"STAYING  HONEST." 

"  T  T  E  who  has  seen  the  suffering  of  men  has 

•*•  •*•  seen  nothing,  he  must  see  the  suffering  of 
women;  he  who  has  seen  the  suffering  of  women 
has  seen  nothing,  he  must  see  the  suffering  of 
children." 

Nixy  united  in  her  own  experience  at  this 
time  the  suffering  of  the  child  and  the  woman. 

Not  being  familiar  with  Victor  Hugo,  she  did 
not  reflect  upon  the  fact  in  the  Frenchman's  apt 
language.  But  she  considered  herself  to  be  very 
unhappy,  and  when  a  Thicket  Street  girl  con 
siders  herself  to  be  unhappy,  she  usually  means 
it.  The  life  which  Nixy  had  led  had  not  cul 
tivated  in  her  a  tendency  to  "  the  blues,"  it  must 
be  understood. 

Upon  leaving  the  service  and  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Zerviah  Myrtle,  she  struck  out  several  miles  into 
the  open  country. 


7  2  Hedged  In. 

The  country  always  seemed  to  Nixy  like  a  long 
breath.  It  was,  to  her  fancy,  purity,  rest,  renova 
tion.  It  was,  in  her  own  language,  "  chances." 

With  a  certain  dogged  determination  not  to 
return  hastily  to  Thicket  Street,  the  concert- 
room,  and  Moll,  —  a  determination  which  I 
think  even  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle  would  not  have 
found  "  depressing "  in  view  of  Nixy's  possi 
ble  "  reformation,"  —  the  girl  travelled  about  in 
the  beautiful  autumn  weather,  searching  for  some 
one  to  help  her  to  "  stay  honest "  for  seven 
days. 

It  was  wonderful  weather.  AH  the  golden  air 
melted  about  her.  All  the  trees  hung  out,  so 
she  thought,  Chinese  lanterns  for  her.  A  few 
brown  butterflies  lingered  languidly  in  the  sun. 
A  few  bright  birds  twittered  on  the  warm  fences. 

o 

Torpid  grasshoppers,  roused  and  heated,  sprung 
from  the  fading  grass.  The  leaves  rustled,  and 
the  nuts  were  sweet  upon  the  ground. 

Nixy's  eyes  and  heart  took  these  things  in.  At 
times  they  reminded  her  of  Lize,  and  of  what 
she  said  about  her  boy,  should  he  come  home. 
At  other  times  they  recalled  the  song  which 
Marthy  Ann  sung  ;  the  birds  sang  it,  the  grass- 


-Staying  Honest?  73 

hoppers  hummed  it,  the  butterflies  nodded  time  ; 
Nixy,  stopping  to  rest,  listened,  and  felt  still  and 
clean  for  a  little  while. 

It  was  only  for  a  little  while.  Some  one,  sus 
picious  of  "tramps,"  disturbed  her  roughly,  or 
questioned  her  curiously ;  she  then  forgot  about 
Marthy ;  she  generally  fell  to  wondering  why  the 
world  should  be  full  of  butterflies  and  yellow 
leaves,  and  no  place  in  it  for  a  girl  who  never 
saw  either  before.  Generally,  then,  she  was  re 
minded  that  she  had  eaten  no  dinner,  and  both 
leaves  and  butterflies  were  forgotten. 

Through  the  day,  and  by  sunlight,  the  edge  of 
her  hungry,  homeless,  heart-sick  life  was  blunted 
a  little  thus,  in  spots.  They  were  the  nights 
which  were  hard.  Some  of  them  she  spent  out 
of  doors,  under  fences,  in  barns,  in  sheds.  Some 
of  them  she  spent  under  suspicious  or  ungracious 
roofs.  We  do  not,  as  a  people,  take  to  stragglers 
kindly  ;  in  the  thickly  settled  regions  of  "  Insti 
tutions  "  and  "  Retreats,"  it  is  not,  perhaps,  con 
sidered  good  sense  or  good  charity.  Nothing 
romantic  happened  to  Nixy ;  nobody  offered  to 
adopt  or  endow  her,  educate  or  marry  her.  Peo 
ple  looked  curiously  into  her  colorless  face,  con- 
4 


74  Hedged  In. 

sidered  her  young  to  be  travelling  alone,  gave 
her  food  or  advice,  as  the  case  might  be,  and 
went  about  their  business;  Men  and  women 
who  would  have  wept  over  her  at  a  prayer-meet 
ing  sent  her  on  her  lonely,  tempted  way  without 
a  thought. 

One  excellent  man,  who  had  lodged  her  and 
prayed  with  her  on  JSabbath  night,  refused  her 
work  in  his  factory  on  Monday  morning;  yet 
no  rack  or  stake  could  have  extorted  from  that 
man  a  deliberate  wrong  ;  and  for  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  whose  feet  the  sinner  washed,  he  would 
have  died  as  calmly  as  he  cast  accounts  ;  he 
simply  failed  to  see  the  links  of  a  syllogism. 

Why  lay  all  the  stupidity  of  good  men  to  the 
charge  of  Christianity  ? 

So,  years  after,  I  used  to  hear  Nixy  say. 

As  I  said,  she  suffered  ;  she  was  hungry,  cold, 
sick,  frightened,  tempted.  These  are  very  simple 
words ;  to  a  girl  of  sixteen  they  are  very  tremen 
dous  facts. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  nobody  wanted  her. 
Of  this  she  became  slowly  convinced.  Nobody 
wanted  her  "honest"  life  ;  there  was  no  room  for 
it  in  all  this  lighted,  unspotted,  golden  country, 


"Staying  Honest?  75 

as  there  had  been  none  in  Jeb  Smith's  saloon. 
There  was  no  room  for  it  in  all  God's  world. 

What  then  ? 

Nixy  had  decided  what  then,  on  a  certain 
damp,  drizzly,  dreary  morning  which  found  her 
on  the  outskirts  of  a  little  busy  town,  very  tired 
and  weak. 

"  Pale  as  a  peppermint,"  the  woman  said  who 
gave  her  breakfast,  and  did  not  ask  her  where 
she  belonged,  "  for  fear,"  she  explained,  "  of  hear 
ing  some  dreadful  story." 

"If  nobody  does  want  me,"  thought  Nixy, 
"afore  night,  I  might  as  well  go  back.  I  thought 
there  was  places ;  I  thought  there  was  folks." 

But  "  nobody  had  wanted  her  "  when  the  night 
fell.  It  was  rather  a  chilly  night,  and  she 
stopped,  caring  little  where  she  went,  in  search 
of  a  convenient  place  to  warm  her  hands. 

Leaning  weakly  and  dejectedly  on  a  fence, 
partly  in  thought,  partly  in  exhaustion,  a  young 
girl,  passing,  saw  her.  There  was  low  light  in 
the  west,  and  Nixy's  face  turned  westward. 
Her  hair  was  much  tumbled,  and  her  dress  dis 
ordered.  She  was  perfectly  pale,  and  her  mouth 
had  drawn  at  the  corners  like  the  mouth  of  a 


76  Hedged  In. 

person  in  a  fever.  Her  hands  were  dropped  at 
her  sides,  like  a  paralytic's.  There  was  a  little 
of  the  same  kind  of  attraction  about  her  which 
there  is  about  the  Dying  Gladiator.  She  would 
haunt  one's  dreams  rather  than  touch  one's 
heart.  Her  youth  and  possible  beauty  soft 
ened,  but  did  not  mitigate,  this  impression.  On 
a  background  of  Roman  ruins  she  would  have 
been  as  effective  as  a  rich  romance  ;  against  a 
Yankee  fence  she  was  simply  painful. 

The  girl  who  passed  her  —  warm,  rosy,  elastic, 
wrapped  in  some  kind  of  soft  white  woollen  gar 
ment  —  half  paused,  turning  to  see  who  the 
straggler  was.  Nixy,  too,  turned,  and  their  eyes 
met  for  a  moment. 

"You  look  cold  !  "  said  the  young  lady,  just  as 
she  would  have  said  good  morning. 

"  I  do  well  enough,"  said  Nixy,  sullenly. 

"  Come  into  the  house  and  get  warm,  Mother 
would  be  glad  to  have  you." 

Nixy  refused  shortly,  and  moved  away.  She 
felt  instinctively  repelled  from  this  snow-white, 
safe,  comfortable  girl  ;  did  not  wish  to  be  under 
obligations  to  her,  —  a  girl  no  older  than  herself, 
yet  so  white,  so  safe,  so  comfortable  ! 


"Staying  Honest" 

The  young  lady  tripped  up  the  steps  and  shut 
the  door.  Nixy  heard  her  as  she  roamed  de 
fiantly  away  ;  wondered  what  was  inside  of  the 
door  ;  half  wished  that  she  had  stayed  to  get 
warm  and  see. 

She  warmed  herself  finally  in  a  grocery  store. 
The  store  had  a  bright  sign,  a  bright  window, 
a  bright  fire,  and  a  bright  old  man,  and  only  one, 
behind  the  counter.  The  old  man  was  singing. 
Partly  because  he  was  old,  and  partly  because 
he  was  singing,  he  reminded  her  of  Monsieur 
Jacques,  and  she  ventured  in. 

The  old  man  gave  her  a  keen  look  over  his 
spectacles. 

"  The  world,"  said  he,  "  is  upside-down,  —  quite. 
It  is  like  the  Scotchman's  favorite  parson  ;  it 
'joombles  the  joodgment  and  confoonds  the 
sense.'  I  give  it  up  !  One  must  stand  on  one's 
own  feet.  Sit  down." 

Nixy,  supposing  herself  to  be  so  directed,  had 
remained  standing  on  "her  own  feet"  by  the 
fire.  Much  perplexed,  she  sat  down.  She 
leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and,  as  the 
grocer  offered  no  further  remarks,  she  sat  very 
still. 


78  Hedged  In. 

"  She  ought  to  be  in  the  nursery,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  after  a  pause.  "  I  give  it  up  !  " 

The  old  gentleman  appeared  to  be  answering 
an  unasked  conundrum,  which  embarrassed  Nixy, 
because  she  did  not  know  but  she  was  expected 
to  guess  it.  She  had,  indeed,  half  decided  to  ask 
him  ;  but  customers  came  in,  and  she  refrained. 

She  discovered, ,  in  a  few  moments,  that  she 
was  becoming  the  object  of  remark,  and,  think 
ing  that  it  might  be  unpleasant  to  the  old  gen 
tleman  to  be  found  sheltering  her,  she  started  to 
leave  the  store.  But  he  stopped  her  peremptorily. 

"  Give  it  up  ?  No  !  If  it  's  anybody's  busi 
ness  whom  I  choose  to  have  sit  by  my  fire,  the 
world  's  come  to  a  pass  indeed.  Stay  where 
you  are ! " 

The  grocer  nodded  so  furiously,  and  glared  at 
his  customers  so  alarmingly,  that  Nixy,  not  know 
ing  what  else  to  do,  stayed. 

"  Hobbs  —  all  over,"  observed  a  little  fellow 
buying  coffee,  glancing  at  Nixy  then,  and  whis 
pering.  Uncomfortable  at  being  thus  discussed, 
Nixy  rose  with  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  grocer's 
customers,  one  by  one,  had  dropped  out. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  make  you  trouble,"  she  said, 


"Staying  Honest?  79 

speaking  quite  low.  It  was  beginning  to  grow 
upon  her  that  she  made  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in 
the  world. 

"  Trouble,  indeed ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Hobbs. 
"  You  'd  better  give  that  up  !  If  Mrs.  Hobbs  — 
well,  in  fact,  there  never  was  a  Mrs.  Hobbs  (the 
world  is  all  upside-down ! )  or  you  'd  go  to  my 
house  to-night  short  metre.  But  if  money  —  " 

"  I  'm  not  a  beggar,"  said  Nixy ;  for  this  did 
not  seem  to  her  like  taking  money  from  Monsieur 
Jacques. 

"  One  must  stand  on  one's  own  feet,  to  be  sure," 
meditated  Mr,  Hobbs.  "  Perhaps  you  're  right 
All  I  Ve  got  to  say,  then,  is,  Dorit  give  it  up ! " 

But  Nixy  was  just  about  ready  to  give  it  up. 

Dusk  deepened  into  dark  early  that  night, 
and  heavily.  Lights  twinkled  thickly,  however, 
all  over  the  little  town,  and  the  girl  seemed  to 
herself,  on  leaving  the  grocer's,  to  be  walking  con 
fusedly  in  a  golden  net.  It  reminded  her  of  the 
red  web  that  the  red  spider  had  woven  on  the 
walls  of  the  second  front  seaward  corner  in  No. 
19.  In  the  same  manner  it  grew  and  brightened. 
It  narrowed  and  tightened  in  the  same  manner. 
It  was  probably  the  association  of  the  fancy,  or 


8o  Hedged  In. 

want  of  supper,  or  the  tremulous  confusion  caused 
by  Mr.  Hobbs's  coffee  -  customer,  who,  from  a 
doorstep  somewhere,  startled  and  spoke  rudely  to 
her,  which  induced  the  conviction  that  she  heard 
Monsieur  Jacques  ;  but  all  the  way  through  the 
golden  web  she  heard  him  :  — 

"  Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
It 's  lonely  —  lonely  !  " 

Following  the  bright  meshes  of  the  web,  quite 
at  the  will  of  the  web  it  seemed  to  her,  she  found 
herself  suddenly  leaning  on  the  fence  again, 
where  the  girl  in  snow-white  woollen  had  spoken 
with  her.  Before,  she  had  scarcely  noticed  the 
house.  Now,  the  lamps  being  lighted,  and  the 
curtains  raised,  one  could  not  but  notice  it,  —  not 
so  much  for  any  one  thing,  or  any  rich  thing  in 
the  furnishing  of  the  house,  but  for  a  certain 
fine,  used,  home-like  air  which  invested  the  whole, 
as  far  as  Nixy  could  see  it,  to  the  very  crickets, — 
an  air  which  even  Nixy,  and  even  then,  felt,  as 
one  feels  the  effect  of  a  very  intricate  harmony 
which  one  appreciates  without  understanding. 

She  unlatched  the  gate  very  softly,  and  crept 
—  still,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  will  of  the  glittering 
web  —  through  the  yard  to  the  window. 


"God's  Folks:  8 1 


CHAPTER    VII. 

"GOD'S   FOLKS." 

MY  friend  Mrs.  Purcell  is.a  woman  whom  it 
is  impossible  to  describe. 

Although  I  am  stepping  all  unbidden  into  the 
straightforward  history  of  Eunice  Trent,  to  at 
tempt  her  description. 

If  I  call  her  a  remarkable  woman,  I  have 
nothing  to  show  for  the  adjective.  She  never 
headed  a  "  cause,"  delivered  a  lecture,  wrote  a 
book,  had  a  "  mission."  She  darns  her  own 
stockings,  bakes  her  own  bread,  goes  to  the 
"  sewing-circle,"  believes  in  her  minister,  takes 
life  on  patience,  heaven  on  trust. 

If  I  call  her  a  beautiful  woman,  I  must  dissect 
my  language :  she  has  been  a  sick  woman,  and 
long  sick ;  her  cheeks  lack  tint,  her  hands  life  ; 
she  has  worn  old  dresses  on  occasions,  her  own 
hair  always  ;  I  believe  that  her  features  are  ir 
regular,  her  figure  emaciated.  She  is  also  a 


82  Hedged  In. 

widow,  and  widows  —  those,  at  least,  who,  like 
Margaret  Purcell,  are  "  widows  indeed  "  —  are  apt 
to  become  monotonous,  romance  growing  rusty 
in  them  with  their  bombazine,  all  the  colors  of 
life  fading  pale  as  their  caps. 

If  I  call  her  a  literary  woman,  I  shall  make  a 
great  mistake ;  she  makes  a  business  of  a  book, 
not  a  passion  ;  can  criticise  Milton,  but  loses 
Paradise  without  emotion. 

It  is  not  difficult,  as  you  see,  to  put  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell  into  words,  negatively.  Positively,  I  should 
say  that  she  is  intelligent,  rather  than  literary ; 
fascinating,  not  beautiful  ;  more  sensible  than  re 
markable,  —  then  I  should  try  again. 

An  open  wood-fire,  an  April  day,  supper-time, 
Pre-Raphaelitism,  autumn  leaves,  cologne-water, 
—  she  has  reminded  me  in  turn  of  all  these. 
Having  had  my  fancy  and  my  comprehension 
thus  abused,  I  am  always  ready  on  demand,  like 
Mr.  Hobbs,  to  "  give  her  up." 

When  I  have  added  that  I  am  speaking  rather 
of  what  she  was  than  is,  and  yet  seem  to  be 
speaking  none  the  less  of  what  she  is  than  was, 
since  she  rules,  like  the  Recamier,  as  royally  at 
seventy  as  at  seventeen,  I  have,  perhaps,  exhaust- 


"God's  Folks."  83 

ed  my  descriptive  resources.  To  be  economical, 
then,  of  useless  metaphors,  it  was  upon  Margaret 
Purcell's  parlor  that  Nixy,  through  the  window, 
looked  ;  and  Margaret  and  her  daughter  sat 
therein  alone  together. 

There  was  much  color,  of  the  shades  which  re 
tain  rather  than  reflect  light,  about  the  room  ; 
pale  walls,  pictures,  a  guitar,  books,  —  these  things 
lay  about  Mrs.  Purcell  as  naturally  as  the  folds  of 
her  dress.  She  and  the  young  lady  were  sitting 
as  she  and  Christina  generally  sit  of  an  evening, 
—  the  one  on  a  cricket  at  the  other's  feet,  in  the 
light  of  a  very  soft  porcelain-shaded  lamp.  Chris 
tina  still  had  on  her  little  white  jacket,  unbut 
toned  at  the  throat  and  thrown  back.  As  Nixy 
came  to  the  window,  she  was  sitting  with  her  face 
slightly  upturned,  and  Margaret,  as  it  happened, 
was  stroking  the  happy  face  (Christina  always 
has  a  happy  face)  slowly  and  softly  —  a  little  ab 
sently,  for  they  were  talking — with  her  thin 
ringed  hand. 

Nixy,  from  the  dark,  looked  in.  She  thought 
of  Thicket  Street  and  Moll.  She  wondered, 
very  bitterly  for  Nixy,  for  she  was  learning  in  an 
immature  fashion  to  be  bitter,  what  that  snow- 


84  Hedged  In. 

white  girl  would  do,  if  dropped  like  a  cloud  into 
No.  19.  She  wondered,  and  this  was  not  bit 
ter,  if  the  lady  with  the  thin  hands  were  ill, 
unhappy.  She  thought  of  Lize,  of  Marthy  Ann. 
She  thought  of  the  Burley  Street  Nursery,  and 
Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle's  prayer-book,  —  an  odd 
jumble  of  things.  She  wondered  if  Mrs.  Myrtle 
were  more  religious  than  Monsieur  Jacques ;  if 
the  lady  here  with  the  white  daughter  were  re 
ligious  ;  if  it  were  because  people  were  white  and 
religious  that  they  all  turned  her  from  their 
doors  ;  then,  abruptly,  how  she  would  look  sitting 
in  the  light  of  a  porcelain  lamp,  with  a  white 
sack  on. 

She  had  pressed  her  haggard  young  face  close 
to  the  window-glass,  eager  to  see  the  young  lady, 
and  lost  in  her  broken,  miserable  musing. 

She  meant  to  go  back  to  Thicket  Street.  That 
was  quite  settled.  She  would  beg  no  longer  at 
the  doors  of  a  better  life.  She  remembered  with 
a  regret  as  keen  as  if  she  had  fallen  from  heaven, 
not  Thicket  Street,  her  life  as  her  life  had  been 
a  year  ago  ;  remembered  her  dream  about  the 
hill,  and  all  the  paths  which  blocked  her  down. 
Was  her  story  marked  upon  her  face,  that  no- 


"God's  Folks:  85 

body  —  nobody  anywhere  —  should  want  her  ? 
Was  she  scarred,  stained  ?  This  puzzled  her  ; 
she  did  not  feel  exactly  stained.  She  did  not  feel 
like  a  bad  girl.  She  had  wanted  to  be  good. 
But,  there  being  nobody  to  help  her,  "  nowheres, 
no  folks,"  there  was  an  end. 

All  the  "  chances "  closed  with  spring-locks 
when  she  drew  near.  The  hand  of  every  man 
was  against  her.  All  the  world  held  up  its 
dainty  skirts.  All  the  world  had  hedged  her 
in. 

These  things,  confusedly,  came  to  her  looking 
in  at  Margaret  Purcell's  window.  Another  thing, 
very  distinctly,  came  to  her. 

It  was  a  new  respect  for  Moll  Manners's  judg 
ment.  Moll  was  right  about  the  devil :  "  Go  you 
must." 

She  felt  very  cold,  for  the  wind  was  rising. 
She  drew  her  shawl  together,  and,  turning,  would 
have  left  the  window,  but  it  seemed  to  her,  very 
strangely  and  suddenly,  as  if  the  golden  web  had 
tied  her  there.  All  the  lights  of  the  town  nod 
ded  brightly  ;  all  the  trees  rustled  like  a  whisper. 
Street-music,  somewhere  in  the  distance,  remind 
ed  her  of  the  concert-saloon,  and  she  stood  still. 


(JA^ 

86  Hedged  In. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  rather  lie  down 
in  the  golden  mist  and  die,  than  go  back  to 
Thicket  Street.  Life  and  Thicket  Street  being 
one,  life  grew  so  horrible  !  Years  in  Thicket 
Street,  "  unrespited,  unpitied,  unreprieved,"  piled 
on  her  fancy  like  years  in  hell. 

"  I  'd  like  to  know  if  God  hain't  got  any  folks," 
she  said.  God  did  not  often  occur  to  her. 

Some  one  across  the  street  —  Mr.  Hobbs's 
rude  customer,  perhaps  —  was  watching  the  lit 
tle  straggler.  This  she  discovered  somewhat 
suddenly,  started,  and,  in  starting,  hit  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell's  window  with  her  elbow. 

So  Christina,  a  little  alarmed,  turned  her  hap 
py  face  and  saw  her,  wan  and  white,  looking  in. 
And  so,  from  very  womanly  pity,  she  and  Mar 
garet  went  out,  rashly  and  royally  enough,  and 
drew  the  girl  within  the  door. 

When  Mrs.  Purcell  had  done  this,  she  repented 
of  it,  undoubtedly,  for  it  was  very  imprudent.  I 
never  knew  a  woman  who  had  so  much  of  what 
Ecce  Homo  calls  "  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity  " 
as  Margaret  Purcell ;  and,  on  the  whole,  I  think 
I  never  knew  a  woman  make  so  few  blunders  on 
it.  Christianity,  like  any  other  business,  should 


"God's  Folks:  8; 

be  transacted  on  method  ;  like  any  other  busi 
ness,  also,  it  loses  nothing  by  the  courage  to 
speculate  occasionally. 

My  friend  at  least  is  shrewd  enough  to  hold 
her  tongue,  on  necessity,  about  her  ventures. 
So,  having  thoroughly  followed  her  impulses, 
and  then  thoroughly  alarmed  herself  at  having 
admitted  this  wanderer  —  beggar,  thief,  infected, 
or  worse,  or  who  knew  what  ?  —  into  her  family, 
and  at  night,  neither  her  daughter  nor  her  guest 
(for  poor  Nixy  was  now  her  guest,  according  to 
Margaret's  code  of  etiquette)  was  permitted  to 
detect  either  her  uneasiness  or  her  regret. 

"  You  are  sick  !  "  she  said,  decidedly.  "  Come 
to  the  fire." 

Nixy  came,  staggering  a  little.  She  heard 
Christina  say,  as  the  porcelain-shielded  lamp 
flashed  light  on  her,  —  "I  saw  that  girl  to-night ! 
Out  by  the  fence,"  and  wished  that  the  young 
lady  would  keep  still.  She  wanted  to  hear  the 
other  woman  talk  ;  liked  the  sound  of  her  voice  ; 
was  reminded,  in  a  stupid  fashion,  of  Lize, 
speaking  of  her  boy,  —  and  then,  in  the  heat, 
spread  out  her  hands,  tried  to  speak,  failed,  and 
fell. 


Hedged  In. 

"  Right  on  my  parlor  carpet !  "  thought  Mrs. 
Purcell,  as  Nixy  dropped,  prone  and  wretched, 
in  the  rich,  warm  room. 

Nixy  had  not  fainted.  It  seemed  to  be  rather 
the  utter  giving  out  of  heart  than  body.  Some 
thing  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  stunned 
her.  Something  in  Mrs.  Purcell's  voice  (Mar 
garet  has  rather  an  unusual  voice,  combining,  I 
have  often  fancied,  the  elements  of  a  battle-cry 
and  a  cradle-song)  struck  her  harder  than  blows. 
She  put  it  in  her  own  words  more  emphatically 
than  I  can  in  mine,  when,  looking  up  into  the 
lady's  face,  pale  and  suffocated,  she  gasped,  — 

"  I  'm  gin  out !  " 

Mrs.  Purcell's  reply  was  equally  apt :  — 

"  Christina,  open  the  window  !  " 

What  with, air  and  supper,  and  what  with  rub 
bings  and  warmings,  and  all  manner  of  womanly 
"  fussing,"  Nixy  by  and  by  revived  a  little. 

The  room,  the  house,  the  people,  their  touch, 
words,  astonished  her.  They  did  not  seem  "  won 
derful,"  like  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle's  curtained 
chamber.  They  reminded  her  rather,  as  I  said, 
of  Lize  ;  of  Marthy  and  Marthy's  baby  ;  of  au 
tumn  woods  and  butterflies ;  of  certain  moments, 


"  God's  Folks:1  89 

very  rare,  when  she  had  stopped  on  her  wander 
ings  to  rest,  and  sat  half  buried  in  leaves  and 
sunshine,  warmed  and  weak,  with  her  eyes  shut, 
and  her  heart  so  quiet  that  she  could  not  re 
member,  if  she  tried,  who  Nixy  Trent  might  be. 
Those  were  the  times  when  she  had  felt  "still 
and  clean." 

She  sat  crouched  on  a  cricket  by  Mrs.  Purcell's 
fire,  with  her  hands  folded,  and  a  slight  quiver 
ing,  like  that  of  a  sensitive-plant  about  to  close,  \ 
at  the  corners'  of  her  mouth.      She  had  not  — 
never  could  have  had,  I  think — a  coarse  mouth. 

Christina,  in  her  little  white  sack,  puzzled  and 
compassionate,  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  grate, 
and  tried  to  be  hospitable.  "  For  we  cannot  turn 
her  out  of  doors  to-night,"  her  mother  had  said. 

"  I  'm  glad  she  is  better,"  said  Christina,  half 
to  her  mother,  half  to  the  stranger,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  say.  Christina  had  a  very  simple, 
straightforward  way  of  speaking ;  it  struck  Nixy, 
as  it  strikes  every  one,  pleasantly,  and  she  looked, 
for  the  first  time,  fully  into  her  face.  The  young 
lady,  she  thought,  had  eyes  like  a  white  star. 

"  I  '11  go  now,  if  you  want  me  to,"  she  said, 

"  O  no  ! "  said  Christina. 


go  Hedged  In. 

"  But  I  am  better,  as  you  said,  and  I  am  not 
a  beggar.  I  '11  put  up  somewheres  else,  where 
folks  is  poor,  and  don't  mind  the  likes  of  me  so 
much." 

Mrs.  Purcell  noticed  then,  what  she  often  no 
ticed  afterwards, — the  curious  mingling  of  rough 
and  elegant  grammar  in  Nixy's  language. 

Christina  turned  to  her  mother,  much  dis 
turbed,  making  Nixy  no  answer.  Mrs.  Purcell 
had  been  pacing  the  room.  This  was  rather  a 
mannish  habit  for  Margaret ;  she  acquired  it  from 
walking  the  house  with  her  husband,  who  was  a 
nervous  man.  She  had  been  pacing  the  room, 
not  knowing  whether  to  be  most  pitiful  or  most 
perplexed. 

"  Christina,"  she  said,  after  a  little  thought, 
"  will  you  step  up  stairs  and  put  the  little  gray 
room  in  '  order  ?  —  and,  if  I  want  you,  I  will  call 
you." 

Christina,  disappointed,  like  any  other  girl, 
obeyed.  Margaret  drew  the  chair  which  she  had 
vacated  near  to  Nixy  ;  she  had  not  liked  to  ques 
tion  the  girl  with  her  daughter  by. 

"You  must  have  journeyed  far,"  she  began, 
hesitatingly,  reluctant  to  seem  inquisitive.  "  Mrs. 


"  God's  Folks?  91 

Purcell  is  a  woman  of — ideas,  —  you  know,"  peo 
ple  have  said  of  her.  It  was  one  of  her  "  ideas  " 
at  that  time,  as'  at  most  times  in  her  life,  that  be 
cause  you  are  what  would  be  denominated  "  be 
low  her  "  is,  if  any,  an  additional  reason  why  you 
should  be  treated  with  courtesy.  The  family 
affairs  of  her  butcher  are  as  sacred  from  her  in 
trusion  as  Mr.  Longfellow's.  She  will  wait  her 
gardener's  invitation  to  cross  his  threshold.  I 
have  heard  her  beg  her  cook's  pardon,  and  bid 
good  morning  to  her  chambermaid.  So  she 
asked  this  question  of  Nixy,  with  the  manner  in 
which  she  would  have  inquired  for  the  health  of, 
for  instance,  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle ;  more  defer 
entially,  it  must  be  owned,  than  she  had  been 
known  to  address  that  lady,  when  they  had  met, 
as  they  occasionally  had,  at  the  meetings  of  the 
"  Magdalen  Home  Trustees." 

"From  the  city,"  said  Nixy.  In  appearance, 
Nixy  was  examining  the  knick-knacks  upon  the 
etagere,  near  which  she  sat ;  in  fact,  she  was 
considering  whether  she  should  tell  this  lady 
the  truth  ;  it  seemed  rather  a  pity  to  cheat  her, 
especially  as  she  had  not  been  the  gainer  from 
lying  to  Mrs.  Myrtle. 


92  Hedged  In. 

"  Have  you  no  friends  ? " 

"  No.  One  old  woman  as  nursed  me,  —  but  I 
ran  away  ;  and  an  old  fellow  with  guitars,  —  but 
he 's  of  no  account." 

"  An  old  woman  who  —  you  have  been  ill 
then  ? " 

"  Sick  enough."  She  finished  her  sentence  in 
a  whisper. 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Purcell  thanked 
fortune  that  she  had  sent  Christina  up  stairs. 
Nixy  ate  her  hat-string,  and  wondered  if  she 
would  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  "the  little  gray 
room"  now.  Mrs.  Purcell  broke  the  silence  by 
saying,  gently,— 

"  You  look  very  young." 

"  Nigh  sixteen." 

"  Not  sixteen  ! " 

Christina  was  scarcely  older  than  that.  Again 
Mrs.  Purcell  thanked  fortune  that  she  had  sent 
her  daughter  up  stairs.  Again  she  paused,  and 
again  she  broke  the  pause  gently,  this  time  with 
a  broken  voice,  to  say,  — 

"  You  poor  little  girl ! " 

Nixy  lifted  her  quick  eyes.  For  the  first  time 
they  filled,  but  they  did  not  overflow  ;  and  that 


"God's  Folks:'  93 

sensitive  quiver  to  her  lips  increased,  but  she  did 
not  cry. 

"What  became  of  the  child?  Do  not  tell  me 
if  you  object." 

"Just  as  lieves.  I  left  him  on  her  steps.  Car 
ried  him  round  'long  's  I  could.  I  promised  Lize 
I  'd  try  to  like  him.  But  I  could  n't.  Nobody  'd 
have  me.  Nobody 'd  have  me  anyway;  folks  is 
all  afraid  I  '11  hurt  the  children,  and  such.  He 
was  an  awful  heavy  baby  for  three  weeks  ! " 

"  Three  weeks  !  " 

"  Less  'n  three  when  I  come  off.  I  s'pose  I 
got  kind  o'  tuckered  out  walkin'  so  early ;  mebbe 
that  's  the  reason  I  dropped  on  your  carpet ; 
't  ain't  the  first  time  I  Ve  dropped  on  folks's  car 
pets  comin'  in  and  restin'  sudden.  I  was  sorry, 
for  it  is  a  pretty  carpet.  I  'm  all  mud  gener'lly. 
She  had  him  picked  off  the  steps,  and  Boggs 
took  it  to  a  Nursery.  I  never  asked  no  more 
questions.  I  did  n't  care  much." 

"  Who  took  it  ? " 

"  A  lady  as  I  ran  steps  for  two  weeks.  Had 
one  of  her  own  about  as  old  as  the  other,  I 
reckon." 

"  So  you  have  been  at  work  ? "  Mrs.  Purcell 


94  Hedged  In. 

asked,  encouraged  by  Nixy's  communicativeness, 
which  astonished  herself  no  more  than  it  did  Nixy. 

"  O  yes.  She  turned  me  off,  you  know,  when 
folks  told  her.  She  thought  it  was  her  duty. 
Very  like.  I  don't  know  ;  I  don't  know  very 
much.  Nobody  never  learned  me." 

"  Have  you  been  looking  for  work  all  this 
while  ? " 

"A  week  since,  —  yes.  Housework,  factories, 
shops,  saloons.  Nobody  wants  me.  I  'm  not  a 
beggar.  I  wanted  to  stay  honest.  It  don't  seem 
to  be  any  use.  There  ain't  anywheres,  nor  there 
ain't  any  folks.  I  'm  going  back  to-morrow." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  like  a  person  in  dull 
pain,  a  little  thickly  and  stupidly.  Mrs.  Purcell 
began  to  pace  the  room  again. 

"  Going  back  where  ?  " 

"  To  Thicket  Street,  that  's  where  I  come 
from,  —  Thicket  Street.  'T  ain't  so  much  matter 
there,  you  see.  I  'd  —  rather  —  not ;  but  nobody 
/  wants  me,  and  I  'm  tired  of  being  a  beggar. 
Thank  ye  kindly,  ma'am,  for.  letting  me  set  by 
your  fire,  and  I  think  I  '11  be  going.  Somebody 
better  used  to  poor  folks  will  take  me  in." 

Mrs.  Purcell  colored. 


"  God's  Folks: 


95 


"  If  you  will  not  be  unhappy  to  stay  with  me," 
she  said,  stopping  her  walk  across  the  room  sud 
denly,  "  stay  till  to-morrow.  I  should  like,  per 
haps,  to  talk  with  you  again.  My  daughter  will 
—  no,  I  will  show  you  to  your  room  myself." 


UNIVERSITY 


96  Hedged  In. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE     GRAY    ROOM. 

"CHRISTINA!" 

^-^  Christina  sat  by  the  fire  again,  now  that 
Nixy  had  gone  to  bed.  Mrs.  Purcell  was  walk 
ing  very  nervously  up  and  down  and  across  the 
room. 

"Christina,  come  here  !  " 

Christina  came.  Her  mother  drew  her  into 
the  light,  and  held  up  the  girl's  bright  face  in  her 
two  hands.  She  had  no  sooner  touched  the 
saucy  face  than  she  dropped  it,  and  walked  the 
room  for  a  space  again.  Presently  she  came 
back,  and,  with  unusual  persistency  in  an  unusual 
caress,  drew  her  daughter's  face  once  more  into 
the  light,  and  once  more,  and  without  a  smile, 
examined  it. 

Christina  sat  mute  and  lovely  ;  she  did  not 
dare  to  be  mischievous. 

It  was   a   lovely  face,  all  dimples   and  color, 


The  Gray  Room.  97 

very  healthy,  very  happy,  not  very  wise,  with 
lips  too  merry  to  be  moulded,  —  they  had  never 
been  still  long  enough,  —  and  eyes,  as  Nixy  had 
thought,  "  like  a  white  star."  Christina,  Mar 
garet  avers,  has  her  dead  father's  eyes.  It  was 
a  face  for  any  mother  to  be  proud  of,  and  careful 
for ;  for  which  to  thank  Heaven's  mercy,  and  to 
pray  Heaven's  protection ;  a  face  to  trust,  and  a 
face  to  watch. 

"  But  snow  is  no  whiter ! "  said  Margaret,  as 
if  speaking  to  an  unseen  listener.  Her  hand 
fell,  as  she  dropped  the  upturned  face,  on  her 
daughter's  head,  and  lay  there  for  a  moment, 
gently. 

"  Why  do  you  bless  me,  mother  ? "  asked 
Christina,  winking  briskly.  It  always  made 
her  cry  to  feel  her  mother's  hand  upon  her 
head,  and  she  disapproved  of  crying  for  noth 
ing. 

"  Go  to  bed,  and  say  your  prayers  ! "  said  Mar 
garet,  bluntly.  "  No,  —  on  the  whole,  stop  a 
moment.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  that 
poor  girl  up  stairs  !  " 

Christina  liked  to  be  "  consulted,"  as  she  often 
was,  upon  family  affairs.  Margaret,  upon  prin- 
5  G 


98  Hedged  In. 

ciple,  took  her  daughter  into  her  confidence 
whenever  she  could.  She  grew  at  once  grave 
and  womanly,  and  she  came  at  once,  shrewdly 
enough,  to  the  point. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  with  her,  mother  ? " 

This  was  exactly  what  Mrs.  Purcell  did  not 
know. 

"  I  think,  at  least,  that  I  shall  keep  her  for  a 
couple  of  days  to  rest.  She  is  ill,  and  ought 
not  to  be  travelling  about  alone.  She  wants 
work.  It  will  be  very  little  trouble  to  let  her 
stay  in  the  corner-room  for  a  night  or  two,  un 
less  you  object  to  having  her  about.  She  will 
not  want  anything  of  you,  though." 

"  I  wish  she  did,"  said  Christina,  simply.  "  She 
looks  so  forlorn  !  " 

"  She  does  look  sick." 

"'I  don't  wonder  she  could  n't  find  work,"  con 
tinued  Christina,  lifting  her  innocent  eyes.  Her 
mother  watched  them.  "  /  could  n't  find  work, 
if  I  had  to  earn  my  living,  unless  I  could  make 
tatting  or  give  music-lessons.  I  Ve  been  think 
ing  all  this  evening  how  funny  that  I  should  be 
your  daughter,  and  she  should  be  she,  you  know. 
How  long  has  she  been  sick  ?  " 


The  Gray 


Mrs.  Purcell  was  taken  aback  by  the  abrupt 
ness  of  the  question. 

"  I  have  not  inquired  very  fully  into  particu 
lars,"  she  answered,  evasively.  "  And  if  I  were 
you,  Christina,  I  should  not  question  her  much. 
I  should  rather  that  you  would  not.  You  do  not 
want  to  be  impertinent  because  the  girl  is  poor." 

"  Of  course  not."  Christina,  who  was  a  little 
lady  to  her  fingers'  ends,  looked  grieved  at  the 
implication.  Her  mother  half  repented  having 
made  it,  partly  because  Christina  did  not  deserve 
it,  partly  because  it  was  not  altogether  honestly 
made.  But  it  was  too  late  to  retract  ;  and  what 
else  could  she  have  done,  looking  into  the  young 
girl's  starry  eyes  ?  They  were  not  eyes  to  be 
darkened  by  a  breath  of  Nixy's  black  story. 

"  At  least,  as  I  said  before,"  she  continued, 
after  a  silence,  "  I  will  keep  the  girl  for  a  couple 
of  days  ;  perhaps,  by  looking  about,  I  can  find 
something  for  her  to  do.  It  does  not  seem  ex 
actly  Christian  to  send  her  off  again  without 
making  at  least  an  effort  to  help  her.  She  has 
no  mother." 

Christina  was  very  sleepy,  or  she  would  have 
expressed  herself  upon  that  subject.  Shutting 


ioo  Hedged  In. 

the  door,  on  her  way  to  bed,  she  stopped,  in 
thought. 

"  You  know  it  's  next  week  Ann  goes  ?  " 

"  What  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  you  might  like  —  out  of 
charity,  and  all  that  —  to  take  this  sick  girl  in 
her  place.  I  suppose  she  'd  be  any  amount  of 
bother  ! " 

"  I  suppose  she  would.  I  will  think  it  over, 
however." 

I  can  hardly  explain  by  what  mental  process 
Mrs.  Purcell  had  preferred  to  await  this  very 
suggestion  from  her  daughter's  lips  ;  certain  it 
is,  that  she  had  been  revolving  it  in  her  troubled 
thought  the  entire  evening,  and  that  her  objec 
tions  to  it,  which  were  very  strong,  narrowed,  as 
she  found  on  careful  inspection,  to  one  word,  — 
Christina. 

Nixy  shut  the  door  of  the  little  corner-room 
with  wondering  eyes.  In  all  her  life  she  had 
never  laid  down  and  slept  in  a  room  like  it.  It 
was  small,  and  simply  furnished,  but  it  was  soft 
and  gray,  —  gray  was  a  color  that  Nixy  par 
ticularly  fancied,  —  and  there  was  a  shade  of 


The  Gray  Room.  101 

silver-gray  in  counterpane,  wood-work,  carpet, 
papering,  curtains;  a  little  gray  statuette  upon 
the  mantel,  and  a  few  pictures  in  gray  frames 
about  the  walls. 

When  she  was  left  alone,  and  when  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell's  step  had  dropped  into  silence  upon  the 
carpeted  stairs,  Nixy  stood  just  in  the  middle  of 
the  gray  room  for  a  few  moments,  almost  without 
motion,  almost  without  breath. 

It  seemed  to  her  like  the  first  twilight  which 
she  saw  settle  down  upon  the  open  country.  It 
stilled  her.  It  folded  her  in.  It  spoke  many 
things  to  her.  What  they  were  I  suppose  it 
would  be  difficult  for  you  or  me  to  understand  if 
we  altogether  knew.  Peace  and  purity  met  to 
gether  ;  righteousness  and  judgment  kissed  each 
other  before  the  young  girl's  opening  eyes.  Yet 
she  felt  nothing  of  what  we  should  distinguish  as 
the  sense  of  shame.  At  this  period  of  her  life, 
Nixy  scarcely  felt  herself  to  be  ashamed.  She 
knew  herself  to  be  outcast,  lonely ;  a  creature 
of  miserable  yesterdays  and  more  miserable  to 
morrows,  —  most  miserable  when  the  gray  room 
had  yielded  her  up  to  Thicket  Street.  She  knew 
that  her  dress  was  dirty,  and  that  there  was 


102  Hedged  In. 

mud  upon  her  feet  She  felt  that  the  delicate 
room  was  too  fine  for  her.  She  folded  away  her 
dingy  clothes  with  great  care,  lest  they  should 
stain  the  pearl-gray  margins  of  the  chair  wpon 
which  she  laid  them.  She  crept  timidly  into  the 
white  bed  ;  it  seemed  like  creeping  into  a  sunny 
snow-drift,  as  if  the  very  breath  of  her  own  lips 
would  melt  it  away  from  about  her.  She  thought 
of  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle's  attic,  and  of  the  bundle 
of  straw  in  No.  19  ;  wondered  why  Mrs.  Purcell 
should  have  put  "  the  likes  of  her  "  in  such  a  bed, 
rather  than  bid  her  room  with  her  servants. 

Christina,  at  that  very  moment,  was  expending 
some  wonder  upon  that  identical  subject;  not 
suspecting,  for  her  mother  had  not  hinted  them, 
the  motives  which  influenced  the  mistress  of  the 
house  in  this  perhaps  extraordinary  disposal  of 
the  poor  little  straggler.  Whereas  Mrs.  Purcell's 
course  of  reasoning  was  simple  enough.  Ann, 
if  she  did  make  sour  bread,  and  paste  her  four 
walls  over  with  blessed  gilt-paper  Marys,  was 
an  honest  woman.  Knowing  what  she  knew  of 
poor  Nixy,  feeling  as  she  felt  herself  to  be  the 
keeper  of  the  maid-servant  who  was  within  her 
gates,  Mrs.  Purcell  would  have  offered  the  out- 


The  Gray  Room.  103 

cast  choice  of  all  her  pretty  spare-rooms,  would 
have  bidden  her,  indeed,  into  her  very  own  bed, 
rather  than  have  imposed  her  presence  upon 
the  Irish  girl.  Here  again  was  one  of  Margaret's 
"ideas." 

Nixy,  upon  creeping  under  the  fine  gray  coun 
terpane,  discovered,  folded  white  across  it,  a  won 
derful  garment,  scented  and  soft,  and  heavy  with 
delicate  embroidery.  It  was,  in  fact,  one  of 
Christina's  night-dresses  ;  and  I  am  compelled  to 
admit  that  it  was  her  best  one  too. 

"  Why,  how  could  you  ? "  her  mother,  in  real 
dismay,  exclaimed  when  she  found  it  out.  To 
tell  the  truth,  —  and  I  propose  always  to  tell  the 
truth  about  Margaret,  —  Mrs.  Purcell  was  for 
the  instant  shocked.  That  girl  in  Christina's 
clothes  ! 

"  Why  not  ?  Of  course  she  had  n't  any  with 
her,  and  I  thought  she  'd  like  a  pretty  one  while 
she  was  about  it,  you  know.  I  did  n't  mean  to 
do  anything  out  of  the  way,  I  'm  sure." 

Christina  stoqpl  with  wide-open,  lighted  eyes. 
Of  such  as  she  had,  she  had  given,  on  hospitable 
thought  intent,  to  Nixy  Trent,  precisely  as  she 
would  to  Fanny  Myrtle.  She  was  so  simple  and 


104  Hedged  In. 

straightforward  about  it,  and  her  mother  was  so 
annoyed,  and  ashamed  of  herself  for  being  an 
noyed  about  it,  that  no  more  words  passed  be 
tween  them  on  the  subject,  —  as  was  generally 
the  case  when  they  differed.  Only,  said  Mrs. 
Purcell,  — 

"  She  might  have  had  one  of  mine,  you  know!" 

Nixy,  on  seeing  the  delicate  thing,  had  laid 
it  away  at  first  carefully,  supposing  only  that 
Christina  had  left  it  there  by  some  mistake  ;  after 
a  while  it  occurred  to  her  that  the  young  lady 
might  by  possibility  have  intended  the  garment 
for  her  use. 

She  unfolded,  examined,  refolded,  placed  it 
carefully  upon  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  It 's  too  grand  for  me,"  she  said. 

This  disappointed  Christina.  When  her  mother 
was  "  benevolent "  she  liked  to  "  help,"  in  a  pret 
ty,  childish  fashion.  It  was  altogether  a  pretty 
fashion,  and  not  altogether  a  common  one,  in 
which  Christina  at  that  time  blended  in  herself 
the  child  and  the  woman.  As,  for  instance,  this 
little  incident  of  Nixy  and  the  night-dress ;  ten 
years  might  have  done  the  thing,  thirty  could  not 
have  done  it  on  more  advanced  and  consistent 
principle. 


The  Gray  Room.  ios\ 

Let  us  smile,  if  we  feel  like  it ;  it  may  be  a 
comfort  to  ourselves,  it  will  be  a  harm  to  nobody ; 
but  I  venture  to  say  that  the  time  may  —  I  do 
not  assert  that  it  will,  but  that  it  may  —  come 
when  not  to  offer  Nixy  our  best  night-clothes 
would  be  as  much  of  a  departure  from  the  ordi 
nary  customs  of  Christian  society  as  it  would  be 
now  to  offer  her  a  shroud.  "  Freely  ye  have  re 
ceived,  freely  give,"  may  have  been  spoken  even 
touching  embroidery  and  lace-work.  Who  knows  ? 

Nixy,  for  very  strangeness  of  comfort,  lay  wak 
ing  much  in  the  gray  room  that  night. 

There  was  a  late  moon,  and  the  light,  where  it 
entered  the  room,  was  like  the  room, — all  of  shin 
ing  gray.  She  thought,  between  her  dreams,  that 
she  lay  in  a  pearl  and  silver  bath. 

When  she  awoke  in  the  morning,  alone  and 
still,  in  the  clean  room,  in  the  clean  sunlight,  — 

"  Mebbe  God  's  got  folks,  after  all,"  she  said  in 
her  heart.  "Mebbe  she  's  one,"  meaning,  of 
course,  Margaret  Purcell. 

She  felt  glad  to  have  found  her,  merely  from  a 

scientific  point  of  view,  even  if,  when  found,  the 

discovery  must  —  as  it  must  —  mean  nothing  to 

her.     She  felt  glad  to  have  lived  to  sleep  a  night 

5* 


106  Hedged  In. 

in  the  gray  room,  though  she  went  back  to 
Thicket  Street  to-morrow.  She  wondered  —  this 
at  intervals  —  what  kind  of  a  girl  she,  Nixy 
Trent,  should  now  be,  had  she  lived  all  her 
happy  life  in  a  pearly-gray  room. 

Christina  broke  upon  the  thought,  in  a  morn 
ing-dress  as  fresh  as  her  eyes,  with  a  message 
from  her  mother,  to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Purcell 
would  like  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  her  guest 
to-day.  And  Nixy,  scarcely  hearing  the  message 
(though  she  afterwards  recalled  it,  and  thought  it 
very  odd),  lifted  her  thoughtful  eyes  to  the  mes 
senger,  and  wondered  on  :  — 

"Would  I  been  like  t/iat?" 

Would  she  ?    Who  dares  to  say  ? 

Mrs.  Purcell,  asking  herself  the  very  question, 
through  the  first  night  and  day  that  Nixy  spent 
under  her  roof,  did  not  dare.  She  looked  from 
one  girl  to  the  other  with  a  restless  mouth.  Out 
of  the  mouth  the  heart  speaketh,  and  Margaret 
was  restless  in  heart. 

She  had  passed  a  disturbed  night  on  account 
of  this  stranger  who  was  beneath  her  roof;  she 
pitied  her  much,  she  dreaded  her  more.  To  have 
given  her  lodging,  food,  rest,  advice,  money,  the 


The  Gray  Room.  107 

gray  room,  would  not,  or  did  not,  satisfy  the 
healthy  conscience  of  this  Christian  woman.  To 
take  the  trouble  of  providing  the  poor  girl  with 
such  a  home  or  such  a  "  Retreat "  as  offers  to 
Nixy's  kind,  promised  to  give  her  poor  con 
tent. 

These  were  the  common  humanities  of  life. 
A  cultivated  infidel  (with  a  nice  eye),  like  Sainte- 
Beuve,  for  instance,  might  far  surpass  them.  Of 
Margaret  Purcell,  sitting  down  to  darn  stock 
ings  while  Nixy  was  at  breakfast,  something 
finer  than  charity,  something  greater  than  philan 
thropy,  it  was  reasonable  to  expect,  it  was  — 
was  it,  or  was  it  not  ?  —  right  to  demand  ;  for 
Margaret  Purcell  was  a  Christian.  The  "  All- 
Soul  "  tired  her,  it  must  be  admitted,  very  much. 
"  The  powers  of  Nature,  formerly  called  God," 
somehow  or  other  seriously  offended  that  meas 
ure  of  common  sense  of  which,  by  man's  in 
alienable  "  right  to  reason,"  she  conceived  her 
self  to  be  possessed.  She  professed  herself  to 
be  —  and  she  had  a  native  and  emphatic  fancy  for 
being  that  which  she  professed  —  a  disciple  of  a 
very  plain  and  a  very  busy  Man,  who  stopped,  it 
has  been  said,  of  a  certain  summer  night,  weary 


io8  Hedged  In. 

and  dusty,  and  faint  at  heart,  to  make  of  him 
self  a  drawer  of  eternal  water  for  a  passing  sin 
ner's  thirst. 

Mrs.  Purcell,  darning  her  stocking,  mused  for 
a  space  upon  this  busy  Man. 
,|  But  had  she  not  done  already  more  than  half 
the  Christian  women  of  her  acquaintance  would 
have  done  for  that  wretched  girl  ?  And  should 
she  be  bound  under  obligations  to  do  what  none 
of  the  Christian  women  of  her  acquaintance  — 
at  least,  none  of  whom  she  could  think  at  that 
particular  moment,  which  spoke  the  worse  for 
either  her  acquaintance  or  her  memory,  of 
course  —  would  do  ? 

But  Nixy's  mute  eyes  pleaded,  Give,  give  ! 
There  it  was !  She  could  not  deny  it.  The 
Man  who  sat  by  the  well  expected  more  of  her, 
expected  much  of  her.  He  was  not  inconsider 
ate  either.  She  had  never  known  him  unreason 
able  ;  she  had  never  regretted  a  sacrifice  made 
for  one  of  his  little  ones. 

/ -«! 

In  her   simple  life,   with   its    simple   burdens, 


simple  blessings,  —  for  so,  as  she  grows  older, 
she  is  fond  of  regarding  what  has  often  seemed 
a  complex  history  to  me,  —  in  all  this  life  her 


The  Grcty  Room.  109 

allegiance  to  Him  had  returned  to  her  what  she 
estimated  as  a  hundred-fold  of  wealth.  Thus  it 
had  become  —  a  very  simple  matter  —  her  habit 
of  life,  no  more  to  question  a  clearly  expressed 
wish  of  his  than  to  fight  the  sunlight.  If  he 
had  called  her,  like  Abraham  of  old,  to  cut 
Christina's  throat,  I  believe  she  would  have 
done  it.  She  might  feel  very  wicked  about  it 
for  a  week  or  so,  before  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  do  the  deed,  but  she  would  have  done  it. 

But  was  poor  Nixy  one  of  his  little  ones  ? 
Far  be  it  from  her  to  offend  against  Nixy  then. 
To  the  half  of  her  kingdom  — for  was  not  her 
home  her  kingdom  ?  —  would  she  offer  her,  if  in 
thus  doing  she  felt  confident  that  she  was  about 
her  Master's  business.  She  said,  over  her  stock 
ings,  Behold  thy  handmaid,  —  and  would  he  do 
with  Nixy  according  to  his  will  ? 

After  this  she  rolled  the  stockings  up,  and  set 
her  wits  to  work  to  discover  what  his  will  might 
be  ;  meantime  she  said  to  Nixy,  — 

"  Stay  another  day  and  rest." 

In  the  course  of  the  day  she  sought  the  girl 
out,  and  asked  a  few  questions  to  this  effect : — 

"  No  parents,  you  said  ?  " 


no  Hedged  In. 

"  No,  ma'am.  Never  had  none.  There  was  the 
organ-grinder,  and  the  woman  as  got  drunk,  and 
the  woman  as  adopted  me  ;  then  the  'sylum  and 
Jeb  Smith,  —  that's  where  I  tended  table, — Jeb's, 
—  and  so,  when  I  took  sick,  there  was  nobody 
that  minded  much  but  Lize  ;  and  so  you  see  there 
warn't  nobody  to  take  me  in  and  help  me  bear 
what  folks  said.  I  always  thought  I  'd  kinder 
.like  to  be  a  different  girl,  if  I  had  anybody  to  help 
/  me  bear  what  folks  said.  It  's  chances  I  come 
up  country  after.  You  have  to  have  chances,  — 
don't  you  see  ?  Sometimes,  when  I  'm  lay  in' 
awake  o'  nights  and  thinkin'  to  myself,  I  seem 
to  think  as  I  should  n't  have  ben  like  as  I  am, 
ma'am,  if  I  'd  had  chances  instead.  That 's  what 
I  thinks  to  myself  last  night,  —  begging  your 
pardon  for  it ;  but  it  come  along  of  the  grayness 
of  the  room." 

Mrs.  Purcell  made  no  answer.  There  was  a 
silence ;  Nixy  stood,  through  it,  listless  and  pale. 
Mrs.  Purcell  broke  it. 

"  You  have  not  —  I  hardly  know  how  to  ask 
the  question,  for  I  do  not  like  to  insult  you 
because  you  have  sinned  once  —  but  —  "  she 
stopped. 


The  Gray  Room.  in 

"  Ma'am  !  "  Nixy  looked  puzzled,  then  flushed 
and  paled. 

"  I  'm  not  a  wicked  girl,"  she  said. 

"  She  may  or  she  may  not  be,"  thought  Mrs. 
Purcell.  For  what  was  the  word  of  poor  Nixy 
worth  to  a  woman  who  knew  as  much  as  Marga 
ret  does  of  Nixy's  like  ?  But  what  could  one  do  ? 
If  there  were  but  a  germ  of  purity  in  the  girl,  how 
trample  it  by  mistrust  ? 

"  What  if  this  sinner  strived,  and  none 
Of  you  believed  her  strife  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  be  deceived  twenty  times 
over,"  said  Margaret  once  to  me,  in  speaking  of 
this  matter,  "than  to  doubt  one  soul  in  which 
I  should  have  confided.  Cheated  ?  Of  course  I 
get  cheated  !  Who  does  n't  ?  But  God  knows  it 
is  hard  enough  for  a  poor  sinner  to  trust  himself, 
without  all  his  fellow-sinners  piling  their  mis 
trust  across  his  way.  Never  was  Christian  labor 
er  worse  cheated,  in  the  world's  eyes,  than  our 
Lord  himself  in  Judas.  You  might  as  well  put 
on  gloves  at  a  cotton-loom,  as  to  be  afraid  of 
being  cheated  in  the  work  of  saving  souls. 

So  Mrs.  Purcell,  after  a  little  thought,  looked 
across  her  silence  into  Nixy's  young,  unhappy 
eyes,  and  said, — 


H2  Hedged  In. 

"  Perhaps  I  cannot  better  beg  your  pardon, 
child,  than  by  believing  precisely  what  you  say 
to  me.  Do  you  understand  ? " 

Nixy  understood,  at  least,  that  she  was  trusted. 
A  falsehood  in  the  light  of  a  sin  seldom  pre 
sents  itself  to  a  Thicket  Street  girl's  most  vivid 
imagination.  But  partly  from  a  keen  sense  of 
policy,  and  partly  from  a  real  though  crude  sense 
of  honor,  Nixy  from  that  moment  decided,  in  her 
own  words,  to  "  go  it  honest "  with  Mrs.  Purcell, 
thinking,  — 

"  She  shall  have  all  there  is  of  me.  'T  ain't  no 
great.  Pity  to  spoil  it." 

"So  you  would  like" — Mrs.  Purcell  ques 
tioned  — "  you  say  you  would  like  to  live  an 
honest  life  in  an  honest  home?" 

She  had  risen  and  stood  now,  taller  than  Nixy, 
looking  down  from  her  fine  pure  height  upon  the 
girl. 

Said  Nixy,  looking  up,  "  You  bet ! " 

Mrs.  Purcell  actually  started.  The  rough  words 
fell  from  Nixy's  lips  as  if  they  had  dropped  from 
the  Mount  of  Transfiguration,  for  her  face  in  the 
moment  quivered,  changed,  flushed  all  over  like  a 
homesick  child's,  paled  like  a  wasted  prisoner's. 


The  Gray  Room. 

"  She  is  starved ! "  cried  Margaret  to  her 
self.  "The  girl  is  starved  for  the  very  crumbs 
that  fall  from  her  Father's  table  !  "  Aloud  she 
said,  — 

"And  the  table  is  full, —full.  God  forgive 
us  all ! " 

"  I  did  not  ask  to  sit  at  the  table,  ma'am," 
said  Nixy,  with  some  pride  and  much  wonder. 

"  Go  away  now,"  Margaret  made  answer 
gently,  — she  was  too  much  moved  to  smile,  — 
"  to-night  again  I  shall  like  to  talk  a  little  with 
you,  before  —  that  is,  if —  " 

As  she  did  not  finish,  Nixy  left  her. 

It  took  her,  I  believe,  till  night  to  finish  the 
sentence. 

"  For  there,"  said  the  mother  in  her,  "  is  Chris 
tina!" 

"  Here,"  said  the  Christian  in  her,  "  is  the 
Lord!" 

Why  not  go  about  the  Lord's  business,  and 
trust  Christina  to  him  ? 

But  what  was  the  Lord's  business  if  not  the 
soft  shielding  of  Christina's  eyes  from  the  stains 
of  the  evil  world  ? 

But  if  Nixy  were  a  "  little  one  "  ?  If,  in  the 

H 


/  ii4  Hedged  In. 

girl's  mute  importunity,  the  very  eyes  of  the 
Master  pleaded  to  weary  her  ?  How  fall  upon 
her  knees  and  say,  "  Here,  Lord  !  I  send  her 
back  to  Thicket  Street  and  sin.  Am  I  my  sis 
ter's  keeper  ? " 

Again,  who  knew  what :  taints  of  blood  and 
brain  were  lodged  in  the  poor  girl's  growing 
life  ?  Neither  the  Lord  nor  Margaret  Purcell 
could  bewilder  the  corrupt  tree  into  bringing 
forth  of  healthy  fruit.  What  if,  after  all  the 
sacrifice,  all  the  risk,  all  the  possible  mischief 
and  misery  of  sheltering  this  stained  thing  in 
her  pure  home,  the  hidden  serpent  stung  her  in 
the  bosom,  —  the  girl  betrayed,  disgraced,  dis 
honored  her  ? 

She  might  send  her  to  the  Home  that  intel 
ligent  Christian  liberality  had  provided  for  her 
class.  It  was  indeed  one  of  the  strong  points 
in  her  maturer  theories  of  usefulness  to  work,  so 
far  as  might  be,  in  the  organized  avenues  of 
charity.  There  being  a  place  for  Nixy,  —  en 
dowed,  inspected,  trusteed,  prayed  for,  —  why 
not  put  her  in  her  place  ?  What  business  was 
it  of  hers  to  turn  her  individual  house  into  a 
Magdalen  Retreat  ?  What  then  ?  If  Nixy 


The  Gray  Room.  115 

went,  —  and  Nixy  would  n't,  —  it  would  be  only 
to  await  the  welcome  of  just  such  a  Christian 
household  as  her  own. 

But  she  might  find  some  "  pious  and  intelli 
gent  "  family  who  would  take  in  the  girl.  How  ? 
At  the  gain  of  her  own  personal  relief;  at  the 
loss  of  her  own  personal  cRance  of  saving  a 
most  miserable  little  woman,  whom  to  save 
would  be  —  what  would  it  not  be  of  richness  of 
privilege,  of  peace  that  passeth  understanding? 
Margaret's  earnest  eyes  filled  with  solemn  tears. 

But  Margaret's  practical  heart  went  question 
ing  on. 

Why  not  find  the  girl  an  honest  business  and 
put  her  in  it,  and  leave  her  —  in  a  factory  board 
ing-house,  for  instance  ?  Poor  Nixy  !  Thicket 
Street  would  wellnigh  be  as  safe  a  shelter. 

But  a  family  without  children  ;  it  was  the 
Christian  duty  of  such  families  —  old,  excellent, 
at  the  end  of  life,  nothing  else  to  do  —  to  look 
up  the  Nixys  of  their  time. 

If  she  had  no  child  —  or  a  husband ;  if  she 
had  had  anything  that  she  did  not  have,  or  had 
not  everything  that  she  had,  Nixy  would  have  a 
claim  upon  her. 


n6  Hedged  In. 

But  that  her  white  little  daughter  and  that 
miserable  girl  —  two  mere  children  yet  —  should 
take  hands  and  step  on  into  their  coming  wo 
manhood  together ! 

Then,  should  Nixy  be  child  or  servant,  or  both  ? 
Either  was  a  wretched  arrangement ;  both,  intol 
erable. 

She  would  make  heavy  cake  ;  she  would  talk 
bad  grammar  ;  she  would  eat  with  her  knife  ; 
she  — 

Margaret  Purcell  stopped  here.  She  went 
away  into  her  room,  and  fell  upon  her  knees, 
and  said,  — 

"  For  Christ's  sake,"  —  this  only,  and  this  with 
a  countenance  awed,  as  if  she  too  stood  by  the 
well  in  the  dusk,  and  saw  the  thirsty  woman  and 
saw  the  wearied  Man. 

She  came  down  to  Christina,  and  said, — 

"  We  will  keep  the  girl." 

But  she  gathered  her  daughter  with  a  sudden 
sharp  motion  into  her  arms,  kissed  her  once, 
kissed  her  many  times. 

"  My  daughter,  do  you  suppose  that  the  time 
will  ever  come  when  —  perhaps  —  you  may  not 
tell  me  —  everything  ?  " 


The  Gray  Room.  n/ 

"  It  never  has,"  said  Christina,  gravely. 

"  You  are  growing  up  so  fast ! "  mused  Mrs. 
Purcell,  in  a  disturbed  voice. 

She  felt  very  vividly  at  that  moment  the  fact 
which  dawns  so  slowly  and  so  painfully  upon  ever 
so  wise  a  mother's  comprehension,  that  her  very 
own  child,  her  flesh  and  blood,  her  life,  her  heart, 
—  her  soul,  it  had  seemed,  —  is,  after  all,  some 
body  else ;  a  creature  with  just  as  distinct  a  will 
and  way  and  worth,  with  as  independent  moral 
risks  and  obligations,  with  as  sharp  a  sense  of 
character,  and  as  sharp  a  mould  cast  by  fate  for 
the  cooling  of  that  character,  as  if  she  had  never 
borne  it  upon  her  heart  and  carried  it  in  her 
bosom.  She  felt,  in  the  risks  which  she  ran  for 
Christina  in  this  business  of  the  girl,  that  Chris 
tina  was  fast  coming  to  a  point  where  she  must 
run  her  own  risks,  and  that  was  the  sting  of  it. 
In  her  perplexity  and  pain  it  seemed  to  her  that 
her  arms  were  unclasping  from  the  growing  girl, 
that  there  was  "Nothing  all  hers  on  this  side 
heaven ! " 

Christina  stood  smiling  by,  like  a  star-flower. 

"  When  you  were  little  I  could  command  your 
confidence,  you  know,"  said  her  mother  ;  "  as  you 


"8  Hedged  In. 

grow  older  I  hope  —  that  I  shall  be  able,  my 
dear,  to  win  it." 

"  Why  —  yes,"  said  Christina,  only  half  under 
standing.  "  I  am  sure  I  would  trust  you,  mother, 
twice  as  soon  as  I  would  trust  myself! " 

So  Mrs.  Purcell  went  to  Nixy.  "  Very  well," 
said  Nixy,  upon  hearing  her  errand,  which  she 
took  very  quietly  ;  "  I  '11  serve  you,  ma'am,  honest. 
I  wanted  honest  work  when  I  found  the  places 
and  the  folks.  I  did  n't  come  to  beg.  If  I 
thought  you  took  me  for  a  beggar  I  would  rather 
not  stay.  But  then  perhaps  God's  folks  — " 

"  What  about  '  God's  folks '  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Nixy,  slowly  ;  "  something 
as  I  can't  get  hold  on.  I  s'pose  you  could  get  a 
sight  better  help  nor  me.  But  you  don't  treat 
me  like  a  beggar,  ma'am.  It 's  something  as  I 
can't  get  hold  on." 

After  a  long  pause  she  looked  up  ;  she  had 
been  sitting  with  her  clouded  eyes  —  it  was  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  brighten  Nixy's  eyes  —  bent 
upon  the  pretty  gray  carpet,  and  said,  — 

"  Perhaps  I  'd  ought  to  thank  you  ? " 

Why,  of  course  she  ought !  So,  for  the  mo 
ment,  Mrs.  Purcell  bluntly  thought.  Nixy  had 


The  Gray  Ro^ 

taken  her  "  charity  "  so  much\as^a,  matter  of 
course  ;  had  so  entirely  failed  to  appreciate  her 
"  sacrifice  "  ;  had  accepted  the  results  of  her  two 
days'  striving  with  conscience  and  praying  for 
light  so  simply !  The  girl  scarcely  seemed  to 
feel  under  "  obligations,"  —  assumed  that  she  un 
dertook  the  burden  of  her  youth  and  misery  and 
disgrace  quite  as  a  matter  of  individual  privilege. 
Now,  in  theory,  as  we  have  seen,  this  was  exactly 
what  Mrs.  Purcell  did.  Our  theories  are  like  our 
faces ;  we  never  know  what  either  looks  like  till 
we  see  its  photograph.  It  struck  Margaret  — 
and  Margaret  was  honest  enough  to  see  that  it 
so  struck  her  —  as  extraordinary  that  her  own 
principles  of  conduct  should  return  to  her  in  such 
a  very  active  shape.  Was  it  not  now  "very 
odd "  in  "  that  kind  of  a  girl "  to  receive  her 
kindness  as  if —  As  if  what?  As  if  she  meant 
it,  nothing  more. 

Mrs.  Purcell's  good  sense  rebounded  quickly. 
She  concluded,  on  reflection,  that  Nixy  had  rather 
honored  her  than  otherwise.  What,  indeed,  had 
the  girl  done  but  evolved  "  the  situation,"  from 
her  own  crude  conception  of  "  God's  folks  "  ?  This 
thing  which  was  finer  than  philanthropy,  which 


120  Hedged  In. 

was  greater  than  charity,  in  which  kings  and 
priests  unto  God  have  read  dark  riddles,  little 
Nixy  Trent  —  for  not  many  mighty  are  called  ! 
— had  put  her  stained  ringer  trustfully  upon. 
She  had  paid  Margaret  Purcell  royal  tribute^) 

"  I  will  put  it,"  said  Margaret,  with  bowed  head, 
"  on  usury  for  her." 


A  Letter.  121 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ALE  TTE  R. 

"  A     CHRISTIANITY    which    cannot     help 
•**  men  who  are  struggling  from  the  bottom 
to  the  top  of  society  needs  another  Christ  to  die 
for  it." 

I  find  these  words  written  on  the  package  of 
Mrs.  Purcell's  letters  and  journals,  to  which,  in 
the  collection  of  material  for  Nixy  Trent's  story, 
I  have  had  constant  reference. 

This  leads  me  to  note  how  naturally — indeed, 
how  inevitably  —  Christianity  and  Margaret  Pur- 
cell  strike  parallel  thoughts  in  you.  Religion 
with  most  people  —  I  speak  advisedly  —  religion 
with  most  people  is  an  appendage  to  life.  Mar 
garet's  religion  is  nothing  less  than  life  itself.  It 
is  not  enough  for  her  to  rest  in  it,  she  "  toils  ter 
ribly  "  in  it ;  she  does  not  gasp  in  it,  she  breathes 
in  it ;  she  will  only  die  in  it,  because  that  shall 
have  become  the  last  thing  left  to  do  for  it. 


122  Hedged  In. 

1  I  feel  myself  at  times  to  be  altogether  incom 
petent  to  carry  this  tale  with  anything  approach 
ing  to  that  degree  of  naturalness  and  vividness 
with  which  the  tale  was  brought  to  me ;  and  this 
is  one  of  the  times. 

I  have  not  many  letters  in  Margaret's  hand, 
and  so  have  treasured  them.  She  takes  a  letter 
very  much  as  people  take  typhoid  fever,  —  yearly 
and  thoroughly.  She  makes  a  business  of  it. 
A  letter  from  Margaret  is  an  epoch  in  history. 
There  is  about  the  difference  between  one  of 
Margaret's  letters  and  other  people's  notes  that 
there  is  between  Froude's  England  and  Water- 
babies. 

The  appended  copy  of  one  of  these  letters, 
though  not,  perhaps,  as  characteristic  as  some,  is 
to  the  purpose  just  now,  and  here. 

DEAR  JANE  BRIGGS  :  — 

"  And  how,  if  it  were  lawful,  I  could  pray  for 
greater  trouble,  for  the  greater  comfort's  sake." 
John  Bunyan  provided  you  and  me  with  a  morn 
ing's  discussion  when  he  said  that.  Do  you  re 
member  ?  Because  I  am  writing  to  you,  and 
because  Nixy  sits  studying  beside  me,  are  reasons 


A  Letter.  123 

sufficient  why  I  should  recall  the  words  on  this 
particular  occasion. 

And  so  I  made  an  affliction  of  that  poor  girl  ? 
Jane,  I  suppose  I  did  !  In  my  theory  she  was 
unbounded  blessing !  In  my  practice  she  was 
bitter  burden  ? 

Exactly. 

Before  I  get  to  heaven,  I  hope  that  the  Lord 
will  give  me  time  to  become,  not  so  much  what  I 
seem  to  other  people,  —  which  is  of  small  account, 

—  as  what  I  seem  to  myself  to  be.    "  Men,"  it  has 
been  said,  "judge  of  our  hearts  by  our  words; 
God,  of  our  words  by  our  hearts"  ;  "we,"  it  might 
have  been  added,  uof  both  our  words  and  hearts 
by  our  theories."    Jane  Briggs  !  have  a  theory  of 
suffrage  if  you  like,  of  soft  soap  if  you  prefer,  but 
have  no  theory  of  sin.    There  is  one  thing  which 
I  should  like  to  be,  whatever  the  necessary  disci 
pline  of  life  thereunto  required,  —  I  should  like 
to  be  an  honest  Christian  ;  and  I  am  urging  now 
no  higher  motives  than  would  induce  me,  if  I  had 
occasion,  to  be  an  honest  grocer,  doctor,  lawyer, 

—  merely  the  self-respect  of  the  thing,  you  see. 
All  of  which  induces  me  to  acknowledge  that 

while    I    thanked   the    Lord    for   Nixy,  —  and    I 


124  Hedged  In. 

believe  I  did  thank  him,  —  I  took  her  at  first 
very  hard. 

To  begin  with,  she  had  lung  fever. 

Perhaps  I  should  ask  you,  Will  you  hear  of 
her  ?  Christina  will  keep  you  informed  of  den 
tist's  and  doctor's  bills,  of  her  white  flannel  wrap 
pers,  —  extravagant,  but  so  pretty !  and  I  think 
it  works  well  for  both  the  girls  that  Christina 
should  wear  white  when  she  can  just  as  well  as 
not,  —  of  the  prices  of  beef  and  bombazine,  of  my 
new  hall  carpet  and  Dickens's  "  last,"  of  fall  sew 
ing  and  Harmonicum  concerts,  of  house-cleaning 
and  the  minister's  salary,  of  preserves  and  prayer- 
meetings,  of  colds  and  chickens. 

Will  you  have  Nixy  ?  If  I  had  gone  into  the 
business  of  daguerreotyping  for  the  rest  of  my 
life,  the  paper  would  have  smelled  of  ether,  and 
the  pen  would  have  told  of  silver-baths.  As  I 
have  chosen  the  business  of  saving  one  wicked 
little  girl  from  Thicket  Street,  are  you  prepared 
for  the  details  of  "  the  trade "  ?  You  demand 
"  internal  revenue  "  ;  can  you  bear  with  Nixy  ? 

I  bore  with  her  at  the  first.  I  scarcely  know 
now  whether  it  is  I  who  bear  with  her,  or  she 
who  bears  with  me. 


A  Letter.  125 

The  business  has  become  an  exciting  one,  and 
my  interest  therein  grows.  The  capital  was 
small,  and  Heaven  took  the  risks.  The  girl  has 
been  under  my  roof  a  year  next  week,  and  I  am 
a  rich  woman  on  date. 

But  think  of  it,  Jane !  Lung  fever  !  Right 
there  in  my  pretty  gray  room  !  For  I  had  not  the 
time  or  the  heart  —  I  have  forgotten  which  it 
was  —  to  move  her. 

She  had  kept  about  the  house  very  quietly  and 
willingly,  helping  Ann,  and  just  about  half  as 
much  in  the  way  as  we  expected  ;  she  must  have 
kept  up  far  beyond  her  strength,  for  she  gave  out 
one  afternoon,  as  Ann  succinctly  expressed  it, 
"  all  in  a  hape."  We  found  her  crouched  on  the 
foot  of  the  gray  bed,  scarlet  and  shivering,  pick 
ing  the  counterpane  with  her  little  brown  fingers. 

"I  tried,"  she  said,  confusedly,  "to  get  down 
and  set  the  table,  ma'am ;  I  got  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs  three  times,  but  I  could  n't  get  no 
further.  Haven't  you  got  a  poor-'us  anywheres 
near,  as  you  could  send  me  to  be  sick  in  ?  I 
can't  seem  to  get  anywheres  in  the  world  that 
I  don't  make  trouble  ! " 

Now,  that  did  n't  make  it  any  easier  that  she 


126  Hedged  In. 

should  have  lung  fever  in  my  gray  room  ;  but  it 
had  the  effect  of  mortifying  me,  which  was  some 
thing  accomplished.  I  own  I  was  mortified. 
For,  at  the  moment,  I  had  felt  so  aggrieved,  af 
flicted,  cross  with  the  girl.  Instead  of  going 
straight  upon  my  knees  to  thank  Heaven  that  it 
was  n't  small-pox  ! 

Through  her  sickness  —  and  she  was  very  sick 
—  I  really  think  that  I  obtained  some  new  con 
ceptions  of  the  healing  department  of  our  Lord's 
ministry.  I  wondered  whether  he  never  re 
garded  it  as  a  waste  of  his  fine  adaptedness  to 
finer  uses,  that  he  should  give  hours,  days, 
weeks,  to  that  offensive  branch  of  medical  ser 
vice,  —  the  diseases  of  the  poor  ;  whether  the 
cripples  and  paralytics  sickened  him  ;  and  how 
he  bore  with  —  fits,  for  instance. 

I  made  some  mention  of  the  name  of  Christ, 
though  not  in  this  connection  exactly,  to  Nixy, 
one  day  during  her  convalescence.  I  have  for 
gotten  what  it  was  that  I  said,  —  something  sim 
ple,  for  she  was  too  sick  to  be  exhorted,  —  but  I 
remember  perfectly  her  answer  :  — 

"  Christ  ?  Jesus  Christ  ?  That  's  him  they 
sang  about  in  the  'sylum,  and  him  they  swears 


A  Letter.  127 

by  in  Thicket  Street.  I  always  thought  one 
of  'em  was  as  much  gas  as  the  other.  Did  n't 
either  of  'em  make  no  odds  to  me.  I  never 
swore  and  I  never  sang." 

"  But  you  understood,"  I  said,  for  I  really  did 
not  know  what  to  say,  —  "you  understood  that 
Christ  Jesus  came  into  the  world  to  save  sin 
ners  ? " 

"  I  'm  not  religious,"  said  Nixy,  wearily  turn 
ing  in  bed. 

From  that  day  to  this  I  have  never  "talked 
religion"  to  her.  The  only  further  remarks  of 
fered  upon  the  subject  that  morning  were  made, 
after  pauses,  by  her. 

"  Are  you  religious  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  wait  and  find  out  for 
yourself  whether  I  am  or  not.  That  will  be  fair 
to  both  of  us." 

"  Mrs.  Myrtle  was,"  she  said. 

From  which  I  inferred,  what  I  have  since 
learned,  that  Nixy  had  been  in  the  service  of 
Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle.  You  remember  Mrs.  Zer- 
viah  Myrtle  ? 

With  all  respect  for  Mrs.  Myrtle,  —  and  I  have 
considerable ;  she  is  generous  with  her  money, 


128  Pledged  In. 

and  useful  in  prominent  charities,  —  I  am  glad 
that  the  Lord  saved  this  little  woman  of  ours 
for  me. 

As  I  believe  I  have  given  you  to  understand 
before,  I  have  chosen  yourself  only  as  the  sharer 
with  me  of  Nixy's  confidence.  In  this  town  and 
this  house,  no  one  but  myself  shall  know,  if  I  can 
prevent  it,  the  history  of  the  girl.  In  this  house 
and  in  this  town  the  girl  shall  command,  if  I  can 
control  it,  the  trust  and  the  respect  that  are  due 
to  a  spotless  woman.  I  shall  assume  for  her  a 
clean  place  in  the  world  through  which  I  have 
undertaken  to  lead  her.  Whether  I  can  gain  it 
or  not  remains  to  be  proved.  When  I  look 
backward,  my  heart  faileth  ;  when  I  look  for 
ward,  fear  taketh  hold  upon  me. 

At  least,  I  do  not  mean  ever  to  trip  her  by 
doubt  of  mine.  What  is  gone  is  gone  ;  let  the 
past  bury  its  own  for  Nixy  and  me.  Whatever  is 
to  be,  I  think,  when  I  undertook  the  salvation  of 
the  girl,  that  I  prepared  myself  intelligently  for. 

Meantime,  I  am  awake  at  my  post. 

I  am  growing  a  little  fond  of  this  "  burden  " 
which  I  took  upon  my  shoulders,  —  you  could 
not  help  it  yourself,  Jane  Briggs,  —  and  I  an- 


A  Letter.  129 

ticipate,  with  much  personal  pain,  the  possibili 
ties  of  a  disclosure  of  her  history  to  any  one 
whose  heart  broods  less  tenderly  or  less  thought 
fully  than  mine  over  her  faults  and  her  deserts. 
At  present,  beyond  the  vague  opinion  of  my 
neighbors,  that  it  was  "  very  imprudent  "  in  Mrs. 
Purcell  to  shelter  the  little  wanderer  who  had 
been  seen  about  our  streets,  no  suspicion  falls  on 
Nixy.  She  troubles  nobody ;  nobody  troubles 
her.  Faint  gossip  fades  about  her.  She  walks 
down  street  with  Christina  ;  respectable  people 
salute  her  respectfully.  Gower  has  doubts  :  "  Is 
she  adopted,  —  or  what  ? "  but  Gower  is  cour 
teous.  Gower  may  be  confused,  but  Gower  will 
be  well-bred.  Heaven  preserve  Nixy  from  Gower, 
if  what  might  be  should  ever  be  ! 

At  present  her  life  is  still,  and  her  life  is  grow 
ing.  At  present,  as  you  perceive,  I  have  hardly 
evolved  her  relations  to  me  and  mine  from  a  chaos 
of  sympathy,  sickness,  and  self-depreciation. 

For  the  fact  is,  Jane  Briggs,  that  the  more  in 
teresting  this  business  of  Nixy  grows  to  me,  the 
less  interesting  I  am  growing  to  myself;  but  of 
that  another  time. 

I  should  have  told  you  that  the  understanding 
6*  i 


13°  Hedged  In. 

is  exact  between  Nixy  and  myself  on  the  subject 
of  Christina. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  I  hardly  knew 
how  to  broach  the  subject  delicately  and  sudden 
ly,  and  broached  I  was  determined  that  the  sub 
ject  should  be  before  the  girl  had  been  twenty- 
four  hours  a  "  permanency  "  under  my  roof.  As 
it  chanced,  on  the  very  evening  upon  which  I  had 
decided  to  take  her  into  my  family,  I  came  across 
her  in  the  dining-room,  where  I  had  sent  her  to 
do  some  light  work  for  Ann,  standing  at  the  win 
dow  among  my  ivies,  and  looking,  through  the 
thick  green  curtain  that  they  made,  upon  some 
thing  in  the  yard  below.  The  expression  of  her 
face  attracted  my  notice,  and  I  stopped. 

Christina  —  in  her  white  woollen,  in  the  drop 
ping  dusk  —  was  watering  the  geraniums  below 
us.  I  should  have  liked  to  cast  her,  just  as  she 
stood,  for  a  statue  in  a  fancy  fountain. 

"  You  like  the  looks  of  her  ? "  I  said  to  Nixy. 

"  She 's  so  white  ! "  said  the  girl  in  a  whisper. 

"  All  the  world  is  as  white  to  her  as  her  own 
dresses,"  I  made  answer,  as  gently  as  I  knew 
how  ;  "  and  I  should  like  —  that  it  should  remain 
so  as  long  as  it  can." 


A  Letter.  131 

"MzWfsaid  Nixy. 

She  lifted  to  me,  very  pale  from  the  tinting  of 
the  ivy  greens,  a  thoroughly  puzzled  face. 

"  I  mean  that  I  would  rather  you  should  not 
tell  my  daughter  —  while  you  remain  in  my  fam 
ily  —  of  what  has  happened  to  you." 

"Oh!" 

Her  face  dropped  slowly. 

"Yes,  I  understand.  You  would  rather  that 
she  shouldn't  know  about  all  that.  Very  well. 
'T  ain't  likely  as  I  should  have  troubled  the  young 
lady,  ma'am,  if  you  had  n't  bid  me  not.'* 

Christina,  looking  up,  nodded  and  smiled  at  us 
through  the  delicate  woven  curtain  that  the  ivies 
had  swept  between  the  two  young  girls. 

Poor  Nixy!  To  whom  "all  that"  had  been 
birthright  and  atmosphere !  What  was  sin  to 
Nixy  ?  What  was  purity  to  Christina  ?  Where 
did  things  begin  and  end  ?  Who  should  say  ? 
How  condemn  or  acquit  ?  How  revere  or 
scorn  ? 

Of  the  particulars  of  this  girl's  past  life, 
concerning  which  you  questioned  me  in  your 
last,  I  have  asked  little  and  learned  less.  In 
deed,  there  do  not  seem  to  be  any  particulars  to 


132  Hedged  In. 

learn.  She  remembers  very  sketchily.  She  talks 
in  outlines,  vivid  but  crude.  She  seems  not  so 
much  to  have  "  taken  life,"  as  we  say,  hard  or 
easily,  purely  or  illy  ;  it  is  rather  that  life  has 
taken  her ;  she  dropped  into  it,  drifted  with  it, 
like  Constance,  "all  stereles,  God  wot."  Some 
times,  as  I  sit  watching  her  overcast  young  face, 
wondering  what  transpires  behind  its  muteness, 
wondering  what  ambuscades  await  its  helpless 
ness,  the  refrain  of  the  old  tale  rings  by  me :  — 

"  She  dryveth  forth  upon  our  ocean." 

God  give  the  poor  little  sailor  fair  seas  and 
pleasant  harboring  !  Who  would  not  be  cast 
"stereles"  upon  the  "see  of  Grece,"  rather  than 
upon  the  tides  of  Thicket  Street  ? 

I  have  inquired  once,  and  once  only,  of  Nixy, 
concerning  the  father  of  her  child.  The  result 
was  such  that  I  concluded,  upon  the  spot,  to  let 
the  whole  painful  matter  drop  forever.  The  sim 
plicity  and  pathos  of  her  story  moved  me  much. 
A  few  words  of  it  I  saved  for  you,  —  the  only 
words  that  I  could  well  save. 

"  I  saw  him  a  little  while  ago.  He  said  he  was 
sorry.  I  told  him  he  'd  ought  to  thought  of  that 
before." 


A  Letter.  133 

To  come  back  to  the  year's  chronicle,  —  you 
know  I  never  stay  where  I  belong,  —  it  was,  per 
haps,  the  lung  fever  which  lost  me  a  kitchen- 
maid,  and  gained  me  —  what,  exactly,  whether 
pupil,  child,  friend,  or  all,  or  neither,  time  must 
prove. 

At  least,  she  was  far  too  feeble  to  set  at  the 
wash-tub.  And  somehow  or  other,  what  with 
her  pallor  and  my  compassion,  her  quiet  ways 
and  my  unquiet  heart,  she  slipped  out  of  bread- 
making  into  books.  As  I  am  so  well  used  to  the 
harness  of  teaching  Christina,  I  have  found  it 
little  extra  trouble  to  overlook  her  studies.  The 
result  has  surpassed  my  expectations.  Nixy  is 
no  genius,  but  she  is  no  dunce.  She  could  teach 
a  common  school  now,  if  it  were  a  very  common 
school,  as  well  as  half  the  district  teachers  in  our 
neighborhood.  And  since  I  can  afford,  for  the 
present,  at  least,  and  by  means  of  a  little  con 
trivance,  in  which  Christina  generously  joins  me, 
—  indeed,  it  was  she  who  first  proposed  educating 
the  girl,  —  to  meet  the  expense  of  her  few  wants, 
I  am  well  pleased  that  Nixy  should  "reform," 
though  I  dislike  the  word,  in  my  parlor  rather 
than  in  my  kitchen,  in  my  personal  atmosphere 


134  Hedged  In. 

rather  than  Biddy's.  I  should  like,  whatever 
may  be  the  result,  to  be  able  to  feel  that  I  have 
done  my  best  by  her. 

Just  here  I  must  admit  that  Nixy  herself  has 
surprised  me  in  rendering  my  course  of  treat 
ment  a  practicable  one.  I  must  admit  that  dur 
ing  the  entire  year,  which  she  has  spent  under  a 
supervision  far  more  keen  than  she  has  ever  sus 
pected,  I  have  not  been  able  to  lay  my  finger 
upon  a  thread  of  coarseness  in  that  girl.  Thick 
et  Street  and  sin  seem  to  have  slipped  from  her 
like  pre-existence.  I  cannot  see  that  a  taint  re 
mains.  I  may  be  making  a  most  egregious  blun 
der,  but,  until  I  see  it,  tainted  she  shall  not  be  to 
me  or  mine.  Upon  this  I  am  determined.  Other 
than  this  would  seem  to  me  like  slamming  the 
door  of  heaven  upon  a  maimed  soul  just  crawl 
ing  in  the  crack. 

"  Go  ye  rather  into  the  highways  and  hedges, 
and  "  —  having  found  the  halt — "compel  them  in." 

She  seems,  as  I  study  her  from  day  to  day, 
rather  to  have  dropped  in  upon  us  and  melted 
among  us  like  a  snow-drift,  than  like  a  dust-heap. 

I  was  prepared  for  dust.  I  took  hold  of  her 
with  my  eyes  shut,  to  save  the  smart. 


A  Letter.  135 

That  seems  now,  you  know,  a  great  stupidity.    $,.-• 
Yet  I  am  constantly  recommitting  it.    You  know 
me  of  old.     I  turn,  like  the  sinner  in  the  hymn- 
book,  "  in  devious  paths."     I  must  feel  my  way, 
if  I  go  at  all. 

For  instance,  she  has  on  a  pink  bow  this  morn 
ing.  Now,  when  one  reflects  upon  it,  there  is  no 
reason  why  Nixy  should  not  wear  a  pink  bow. 
The  heart  beneath  it  may  be  as  white  as  a  little 
nun's,  for  all  the  pinkness.  Nixy  Trent  has  un 
doubtedly  the  same  moral  right  to  pink  ribbons 
as  Christina  Purcell,  —  who  blushes  all  over  with 
them  this  very  morning,  by  the  way,  and  sits  in 
the  window  with  a  curve  like  a  moss  rosebud  to 
her  neck.  It  may  be  because  I  don't  like  to  see 
the  two  girls  wear  the  same  thing,  for  which, 
again,  I  can  plead  no  valid  reason,  but  I  dorit 
like  it.  It  annoys  me  ;  Christina  laughs  at  me 
for  it,  which  is  not  soothing.  Two  or  three  times 
lately,  Nixy  has  shown  some  faint  awaking  sense 
of  girlish  pleasure  in  girlish  things  ;  has  bright 
ened  in  the  eyes,  in  the  voice,  in  motions,  moods ; 
chatters  with  Christina,  runs  in  and  out,  laughs 
about  the  house  ;  once  she  tried  a  feather  upon 
her  round  straw  hat ;  she  was  pretty  in  it  too, 


136  Hedged  In. 

which  struck  me  for  the  moment  as  an  impro 
priety,  if  you  will  believe  it. 

Why  should  n't  she  be  as  pretty  as  she  can  ? 
—  as  pretty  as  my  child,  for  instance  ?  Why 
not  wear  feathers  and  ribbons  ?  Who  should 
laugh  about  a  house  if  she  should  n't  ?  Why 
am  I  not  as  glad  of  it  at  the  instant  as  I  become 
upon  several  hours'  serious  reflection  ? 

"  Go,"  said  He  who  was  wise  in  these  matters, 
"  and  sin  no  more."  Nixy  went,  and  Nixy  sinned 
no  more,  and  Nixy  is  just  sixteen.  Shall  I  cork 
up  all  the  sparkle  of  her  new  young  life  ?  Why 
is  it  —  can  you  tell  me  ?  —  that  I  should,  on  a 
species  of  stupid  instinct,  look  more  confidently 
for  the  salvation  of  the  girl's  soul  if  she  wore 
brown  dresses  and  green  veils,  and  were  the 
least  bit  uglier  than  she. is? 

Once,  and  once  only,  she  asked  me  if  she 
might  have  a  white  jacket  like  Christina's.  I 
gave  her  a  peremptory  negative,  for  which  I 
was  afterwards  very  much  ashamed  ;  and  she 
has  never  since  alluded  to  the  subject  in  any 
way. 

This  brings  me  to  say  a  word  or  so,  in  closing, 
about  the  relation  between  the  two  girls.  I  have 


A  Letter.  137 

left  it  till  the  last  thing,  because  it  is  a  subject 
upon  which  I  feel  some  anxiety,  but  in  regard  to 
which  I  feel  myself  at  my  wits'  end. 

My  daughter  Christina  has  taken  an  astound 
ing  fancy  to  poor  little  Nixy  Trent.  I  cannot 
shut  my  eyes  to  the  fact,  if  I  would.  I  am  not 
at  all  sure  that  I  would,  —  but  there  is  the  fact. 
It  seems '  to  have  been,  throughout,  the  most 
genuine,  hearty,  straightforward,  natural  thing  ; 
just  Christina  all  over. 

As  I  told  you,  of  Nixy's  history  she  knows 
nothing.  As  I  told  you,  Nixy's  conduct  in  this 
house  has  been  as  pure  as  her  own. 

I  am  convinced,  that,  in  strict  obedience  to 
my  commands,  Christina  has  never  investigated, 
Nixy  has  never  revealed,  the  particulars  of  her 
life  in  Thicket  Street. 

She  was  a  stranger,  and  I  took  her  in,  —  that 
satisfied  Christina.  She  is  a  good  girl,  and  I  am 
fond  of  her,  —  that  is  evident  to  Christina.  She 
is  not  a  servant.  She  sits  in  the  parlor.  She 
adds  my  accounts,  which  overpower  Christina ; 
she  reads  John  Milton,  of  whom  Christina  stands 
very  much  in  awe.  She  is  very  winning  com 
pany,  and  Christina  is  very  much  alone.  You 


J38  Hedged  In. 

see?     The   consequence,  whether   inevitable   or 
not,  arrived. 

I  see  the  two  girls  arm  in  arm,  hand  in  hand, 
in  and  out  together,  here  and  there,  —  like  any 
other  two  girls. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  Christina  kiss  that 
girl,  Jane  Briggs,  I  believe  I  could  have  sent 
her  back  to  Thicket  Street  without  a  spasm  of 
compunction.  If  I  had  dared,  I  should  have  taken 
my  daughter  up  stairs  and  washed  her  face. 

I  have  become  used  to  it  now  ;  whether  that 
is  Christianity  or  stupidity,  I  am  at  loss  at  times 
to  tell. 

Sometimes,  all  that  I  feared  for  my  own  child, 
in  the  experiment  of  saving  the  child  of  sin, 
rushes  over  me  with  a  sudden  sense  of  terror  that 
makes  me  fairly  sick  at  heart.  Sometimes,  all 
that  I  hope  for  Nixy  stands  like  an  angel  fold 
ing  in  my  daughter  with  a  mighty  wing.  Gen 
erally,  my  assurance  that  I  have  done  the  best 
I  knew  how  for  the  Lord  —  and  therefore  for 
Christina  and  myself — keeps  me  still. 

To  be  sure,  if  I  have  behaved  like  a  fool,  the 
Lord  is  not  responsible  for  it ;  but  I  am  not  as 
yet  convinced  that  I  have. 


A  Letter.  139 

I  believed,  that,  when  Nixy  entered  my  door, 
the  Master  without,  in  the  dark,  cried,  "  Open  to 
Me."  Thus  believing,  I  have  "  experimented." 
Still  so  believing,  I  am  prepared,  if  necessary, 
to  run  further  risks. 

One  thing  I  should  add  :  I  told  you  that  I  had 
never  "talked  religion"  to  the  girl.  But  one  i 
tries,  you  know,  to  live  it.  I  fancy  that  Nixy  has  I 
familiarized  herself  with  it,  in  a  certain  way, 
as  she  has  with  fresh  air  and  pictures.  She 
breathes  and  watches.  It  has  not  perhaps  struck 
her  yet,  that  to  be  a  Christian  is  so  much  an  ex 
perience  as  an  atmosphere.  The  lungs  may  move 
for  years  before  we  are  conscious  of  possessing  a 
windpipe.  I  enrich  and  purify  the  air  for  her 
as  well  as  I  may,  and  leave  the  Lord  his  own 
chances.  Whether  his  coming  be  in  the  strong 
wind,  or  in  the  still,  small  voice,  who  knoweth  ? 
Nixy  drinks  him  in,  and  grows. 

I  think  I  shall  not  entirely  forget  the  words 
which  this  poor  child  so  trustfully  dropped  of  me, 
before  ever  she  had  tested  what  manner  of  woman 
I  was.  It  would  go  hard  with  me  to  find  that  I 
had  marred  beyond  restoration  her  simple  fancy 
of  the  Lord's  "  folks."  It  would  be  rather  nature 


14°  Hedged  In. 

than  grace,  that  she  could  come  at  him  through 
me,  and  what  he  has  empowered  me  to  do  for 
her.  I  would  not  so  much  deceive  her  as  un 
deceive  myself;  not  manage  her,  but  be  guided 
by  her;  become  what  she  deems  me,  rather  than 
tell  her  what  I  am  not.  Which  is  why  I  have 
found  myself  of  late'  to  be  so  uninteresting  a 
study,  as  I  hinted.  Which  is  why  I  am  in  doubt 
whether  it  is  I  who  bear  with  Nixy,  or  she  who 
bears  with  me. 

But  what  would  happen  to  us  all,  if  the  Nixys 
of  the  world  "  comprehended  "  "  God's  folks  "  as 
God's  folks,  —  whether  justifiably  or  not,  who  can 
say  ?  —  fancy  that  they  comprehend  Nixy  ?  But 
whatever  I  am  to  her  it  is  time  that  I  should  be 
Yours, 

MARGARET  PURCELL. 

P.  S.  —  Have  I  told  you  that  I  owe  the  only 
definite  evidence  of  what  we  term  "  religious  in 
terest"  in  Nixy,  to  an  old  infidel  Frenchman  in 
Thicket  Street  ?  One  Sunday  night,  Christina 
and  I,  with  the  guitar,  singing  "  Depths  of  Mercy," 
rather  for  ourselves  than  for  her,  were  startled  by 
a  low  exclamation  from  the  girl's  corner,  where 


A  Letter. 

she  sat  in  the  dark,  listlessly  listening;  foi 
never  sings. 

"  I  Ve  heard  that  before,"  she  said,  with  some 
emotion,  checking  herself  because  Christina  was 
by ;  then  gravely  adding,  "  They  are  good  words, 
and  a  good  man  sang  them.  Nobody  ever  taught 
me,  but  I  knew  they  were  good  words.  He  was 
an  old  man,  and  kind  to  me  ;  but  he  was  not  at 
all  religious.  I  heard  the  song  when  I  was  —  in 
great  trouble.  It  helped  to  get  me  out,  —  though 
/  was  not  religious  either,  and  I  see  now  that  it 
is  a  very  religious  song.  I  wonder  if  Jacques 
knew  that ;  for  he  was  not  religious,  as  I  say." 

Ah,  these  blind  who  lead  the  blind  ! 

It  amazes  me  to  see  how  the  Lord  uses  us, 
whether  we  will  or  no,  for  his  own  purposes  ; 
how  he  plans  and  counterplans,  economizes, 
adapts,  weaves  the  waste  of  one  life  into  the 
wealth  of  another.  In  his  great  scheme  of  uses, 
it  might  be  worth  while  that  there  should  be  an 
old  Frenchman  in  Thicket  Street,  for  the  sake 
of  that  single  strain  of  Christian  song  which 
Nixy's  dumb  life  appropriated. 

It  may  be  a  very  foolish  fancy  (unless,  as  Mrs. 
Browning  says,  "Every  wish  is  a  prayer  —  with 


i42  Hedged  hi. 

God"),  but  I  have  had  the  fancy  more  than  once 
to  wish,  when  we  are  singing  on  Sabbath  nights, 
that  old  Monsieur  Jacques  may  learn  before  he 
dies,  for  Nixy's  sake,  to  see  other  meanings  to 
the  hymn  than  the  beat  of  an  excellent  guitar- 
waltz. 

We  sing  the  hymn  to  her  every  Sunday.  She 
asks  for  it,  but  never  comments  upon  it. 

I  believe,  Jane  Briggs,  that  I  would  rather  be 
the  author  of  one  good  hymn  than  of  anything 
else  in  this  world,  unless  it  were  sunshine. 

There  is  just  room  left  for  what  I  had  nearly 
forgotten  to  say,  —  that  my  rheumatic  afflictions 
increase,  to  the  weariness  of  my  soul.  The  spirit 
is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  particularly  weak  in 
view  of  the  invalid  old  age  which  is  likely  to  be 
my  destiny.  One  had  so  much  rather  screw  out 
like  an  astral  than  flicker  out  like  a  candle. 

Apropos  of  this,  we  have  a  new  physician  in 
this  place  :  Burtis,  by  name,  —  from  town,  I  be 
lieve,  —  and  learned  in  the  "  Latin  parts  "  of  his 
profession.  A  good  thing.  There  was  sore 
need  of  him.  I  shall  feel  safer  about  the  girls. 


The  White  Stone.  143 

tu^X 

OF  THE  '      \ 

'UNIVEKSITYJ 

&&' 

TER    X. 

THE     WHITE     STONE. 

"  T3  UT  my  dear  Mrs.  Purcell !  " 
-L*      My  dear  Mrs.  Purcell  smiled. 

One  well  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Purcell  would 
have  inferred  her  visitor  from  her  smile.  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that  any  other  than  Mrs.  Zerviah 
Myrtle  could  receive  from  Margaret  the  benefit 
of  that  particular  smile. 

That  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle  should  happen  to  be 
a  visitor  in  Gower  on  the  summer  month  which 
dates  these  notes  of  the  fact  (a  date  four  years 
older,  I  believe,  than  that  of  Margaret's  letter) 
was  natural.  That  she  should  chance  to  be 
making  an  afternoon  call  upon  Mrs.  Purcell 
was  not  extraordinary.  That,  having  been  driv 
en  by  Boggs  directly  past  the  new  grammar 
school  of  Gower,  to  see  the  building,  and  this 
at  the  hour  of  the  grammar  school's  dismissal, 
she  should  have  met  and  recogiized  the  new 


*44  Hedged  In. 

teacher,  Miss  Trent,  was  rather  a  logical  se 
quence  than  an  accident. 

That  the  first  person  with  whom  she  should 
consequently  have  conversed,  after  the  occur 
rence  of  these  incidents,  was  Mrs.  Purcell,  may 
have  been,  for  the  grammar  teacher,  not  unfor 
tunate. 

So  said  Mrs.  Myrtle,  leaning  back  in  a  serious 
ly  depressed  though  very  graceful  attitude,  in 
(what  if  she  had  known  it ! )  —  in  Nixy's  favorite 
arm-chair  by  Nixy's  favorite  window,  — 

"  My  DEAR  Mrs.  Purcell !  " 

Mrs.  Purcell,  through  her  smile,  called  and 
sent  Christina  to  keep  Nixy  out  of  the  way. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle,  without 
a  smile,  "  that  I  was  never  quite  so  much  taken 
by  surprise'  in  the  course  of  my  life." 

"  Very  likely,"  Margaret  made  quiet  reply. 
"  I  suppose  that  your  surprise  would  not  be  un 
usual  in  any  one  with  your  command  of  Nixy 
Trent's  past,  and  without  my  confidence  in  her 
future." 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  such  a  girl,"  urged 
Mrs.  Myrtle,  with  a  certain  kind  of  gentle  sad 
ness  in  her  voice,  such  as  Margaret  had  noticed 


The  White  Stone.  145 

that  Mrs.  Myrtle's  voice  generally  acquired  in 
addressing  "  such  girls  "  at  the  Home,  —  "I  can 
not  understand  how  you  dared  to  receive  such  a 
girl  into  your  family,  —  and  on  such  very  pecu 
liar,  though  very  Christian,  terms,  —  and  you  the 
mother  of  so  innocent  and  lovely  a  child  as  your 
Christina.  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  am  imperti 
nent,  Mrs.  Purcell,  but  I  am  perplexed.  I  should 
like  to  know,  from  the  Christian  point  of  view, 
however  beautiful  and  interesting  a  thing  it  was 
to  do,  —  and  I  envy  you  the  opportunities,  I  as 
sure  you,  —  how  you  dared"' 

"  I  dared  because  Christina  was  '  innocent  and 
lovely/  and  because  I  was  her  mother.  Perhaps, 
too,  partly  because  it  was  a  '  beautiful  and  Chris 
tian  thing  to  do  ! '  "  said  Margaret,  in  a  ringing 
voice.  It  seemed  to  her  like  stepping  from  a 
sanctuary  into  a  battle-ground,  to  see  her  own 
old  long-dead  doubts  and  struggles  diluted  in 
Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle's  "  depressing  "  atmosphere. 

It  was  so  long  then  since  poor  little  Nixy  had 
been  anything  other  than  Mrs.  Purcell's  trusted 
friend,  child,  treasure,  —  whatever  it  was  !  She 
never  knew.  She  knew  only  that  her  visitor's 
chatter  struck  very  near  a  very  quiet  and  long 
7  J 


146  Hedged  In. 

quiet  heart,  that  had  folded  the  erring  child,  a 
pure  woman,  into  its  growing  love  and  growing 
need.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  becom 
ing  "  sick  and  old,"  as  people  said,  that  she  had 
of  late  troubled  herself  so  little  about  Nixy ;  had 
feared  so  little  for  her  or  for  herself ;  had  so  lit 
tle  memory  of  her  yesterday,  so  little  of  the  old 
fear  for  her  to-morrow.  Or  it  may  have  been 
because  Nixy  had  (ceased  to  talk  bad  graxnmar ; 
never  ate  with  her  Knife  now  ;  enticed  Christina 
through  the  "  Excursion " ;  never  wore  pink 
bows;  had  "joined  the  church,"  and  seldom, 
if  ever,  mentioned  Thicket  Street.  Margaret 
was  not  stupid,  but  Margaret,  as  I  said,  was 
sick.  Little  things  had  given  her  great  quiet 
for  Nixy.  A  little  thing — even  Mrs.  Zerviah 
Myrtle  —  now  alarmed  and  jarred  upon  her. 

"  But  Christina  was  so  very  young,"  urged  Mrs. 
Myrtle,  "  so  near,  I  should  fancy,  the  age  of  the 
other  girl,  —  I  think  she  told  me  she  was  fifteen 
when  she  was  in  my  service,  —  and  how  could 
you  know  —  " 

"I  should  not  know  much  if  I  did  not  know 
enough  to  trust  my  own  influence  over  my  own 
daughter,"  said  Margaret,  with  compressed  lips. 


The  White  Stone.  147 

She  wondered  at  that  moment  if  she  could  ever 
have    lain    awake   two   nights,  trying   to  decide 
whether    Nixy   would    injure     Christina.      She 
would  as  soon  think  now  of  Christina's  injuring 
Nixy.     She  was  inclined  for  the  moment  —  but , 
the  moment  only,  as  was  the  way  with  Marga 
ret  —  to  feel  as  if  Mrs.  Myrtle  had  insulted  her  \ 
common    sense.      So   fast   we    throw   away   the  I 
"  stepping-stones  "  when  we  have  climbed  up  and 
over  "  our  dead  selves  "  ! 

"  But  there  are  so  many  sacred  and  superior 
claims,"  argued  Mrs.  Myrtle,  "  that  /  could  not 
feel  it  to  be  my  duty  to  run  the  risk,  which  you, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Purcell,  ran,  with  this  unfortunate 
girl.  My  field  of  usefulness,  as  the  mother  of 
my  Fanny,  is  necessarily  so  very  much  in  the  — 
what  might  be  called  the  domestic  affections.  It 
was  a  depressing  circumstance  that  I  was  obliged 
to  dismiss  the  girl  from  my  service  as  I  did.  I 
took  pains  to  keep  my  servants  in  ignorance  of 
the  details  of  the  affair,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  Mr.  Myrtle  and  a  few  very  particular  friends, 
I  have  been  careful  not  to  mention  it.  But  I 
little  thought  ever  to  see  Nixy  Trent  teaching  a 
grammar  school ! " 


148  Hedged  In. 

From  which  one  might  have  inferred  that  if 
Mrs.  Myrtle  had  ever  thought  to  see  Nixy  Trent 
teaching  a  grammar  school,  she  would  have  made 
a  particular  effort  to  mention  it. 

"  Nixy  is  considered,  in  my  family  and  this 
town,  to  be  an  unspotted  woman  —  "  began  Mar 
garet. 

Mrs.  Myrtle  interrupted  softly  :  — 

"  Does  that  never  strike  you  as  at  all  deceit 
ful  ? " 

"Nixy's  character  here,"  repeated  Mrs.  Purcell, 
with  unusual  brusqueness,  "is  as  high  as  yours 
or  mine,  Mrs.  Myrtle!" 

"  You  shock  me,  Mrs.  Purcell ! "  said  Mrs. 
Myrtle.  Mrs.  Myrtle  looked,  in  fact,  shocked. 

"Perhaps  I  am  rude,"  said  Margaret,  with 
heightened  color  and  quivering  voice,  "  but  I 
have  shielded  Nixy  like  my  own  child  so  far,  — 
and  gossip  —  " 

"  Mrs.  Purcell,"  said  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle,  po 
litely,  —  very  politely,  —  "I  think  you  have  quite 
misunderstood  and  misappreciated  me.  /  never 
gossip,  /have  no  wish  to  injure  the  girl.  What 
do  you  take  me  for  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  my 
Christian  sympathies  with  that  erring  class  are 


The  White  Stone.  149 

less  quick  than  your  own  ?  Providence  threw 
into  your  way  chances  of  usefulness  never  grant 
ed  to  me  in  my  confined  sphere  of  action." 

Mrs.  Myrtle  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Her  polite  voice  ruffled.  She  looked  sincerely 
distressed.  Her  bonnet-strings  glittered  with  two 
sincere  tears. 

"  You  depress  me  so,  Mrs.  Purcell ! "  she  ex 
claimed,  in  a  broken,  honest  fashion,  as  Margaret, 
silent,  sat  and  wondered  what  she  was  expected 
to  say.  "  I  cannot  understand  why  it  is.  Aspi 
rations  —  I  have  my  aspirations,  Mrs.  Purcell, 
though  it  is  seldom  that  I  touch  upon  them  in 
this  confidential  manner  —  aspirations  after  ac 
tivity  and  sacrifice,  and  all  that  is  Christian  and 
beautiful,  which  I  find  impossible  to  realize,  you 
make  no  more  fuss  over  than  you  would  over 
a  tea-party.  You  impress  me  as  a  kind  —  of — 
military  spirit,  Mrs.  Purcell  ;  really  quite  a  ro 
mantic  kind  of  military  character.  There  is  such 
a  nonchalance  —  esprit  —  daring  way  to  you. 
Now  I  was  n't  made  to  dare.  It  never  would 
work  with  Mr.  Myrtle  and  the  children.  It 
never  would  work  in  society.  And  there  are 
claims  —  I  do  not  know  how  it  happens,  but  I 
find  you  the  most  depressing  person  I  know!" 


Hedged  In. 

"  Then  call  again  —  do  ! "  urged  Margaret.  She 
did  not  mean  to  be  sarcastic ;  intended  to  be 
hospitable  only ;  feeling  wellnigh  as  uncomfort 
able  as  her  visitor.  I  think  she  was  thencefor 
ward  rather  inclined  to  thank  Heaven  that  Mrs. 
Zerviah  Myrtle  had  not  made  a  prottgt  of  Nixy, 
than  to  consider  Mrs.  Myrtle  as  accountable  to 
Heaven  for  turning  Nixy  from  her  doors. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  uncharitable,"  she  said, 
in  parting  from  her  visitor  upon  the  piazza. 
Whether  she  meant  it  or  not,  Margaret  felt 
that  she  had  not  "  borne  all  things,  hoped  all 
things,  suffered  long,"  with  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myr 
tle.  It  is  far  easier  for  a  woman  like  Margaret 
Purcell  to  apply  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  I  Cor 
inthians  to  the  Nixy  rather  than  to  the  Mrs. 
Myrtle  of  society.  The  only  difference  in  that 
respect  between  Margaret  and  other  people  is, 
that  Margaret  was  keenly  conscious  of  a  failing, 
where  most  of  us  would  be  blindly  elevated  by 
a  sense  of  particular  virtue.  Christian  liberal 
ity  falls  so  much  more  gracefully  than  it  irrigates 
or  climbs.  It  is  so  much  less  difficult  to  conde 
scend  to  an  inferior  than  to  be  generous  to  an 
equal  or  a  superior.  The  ideal  charity  is  that 


The  White  Stone.  151 

rare  and  large  thing  which  is  at  ease  and  is  at 
work  up  and  down  and  around  itself.  It  is,  in 
fact,  an  atmosphere  rather  than  an  avenue. 

"  I  should  not  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell,  thought 
fully,  "  to  judge  narrowly  in  this  matter.  Every 
body  could  not  pick  a  girl  up  from  the  streets  and 
put  her  into  the  parlor,  —  if  every  girl  could  go. 
It  may  be  that  you,  Mrs.  Myrtle,  in  keeping  Nixy 
in  your  kitchen,  would  have  made  more  of  a 
Christian  sacrifice  than  have  I  in  dealing  as  I 
have  seen  fit  to  deal  with  her.  It  is  more  like 
ly  to  be,  as  you  observe,  '  best  for  Fanny '  that 
you  dismissed  her  entirely  from  your  house.  I 
pray  you  to  understand  that  I  climb  the  Judg 
ment  Seat  for  nobody.  I  do  claim,  however,  that 
if  I  chose  to  make  a  crowned  princess  out  of  Nixy 
Trent,  it  would  be  nobody's  business  but  my  Mas 
ter's.  And  I  demand,  for  myself  and  for  Nixy, 
the  respect  and  the  assistance  —  I  will  not  have 
the  tolerance  and  suspicion  —  of  the  Christian 
society  in  which  I  move.  I  may  fail  to  obtain 
it,  but  I  require  it  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 
Christ,  —  to  whom,  Mrs.  Myrtle,  the  girl  would 
have  gone  from  Thicket  Street  far  more  trust 
fully  than  ever  she  came  to  you  or  me,  —  and 


152  Hedged  In. 

you  and  I  are  women,  and  her  sisters,  and  her 
fellow-sinners,  Heaven  forgive  us  !  " 

Margaret,  with  feverish  color  and  disturbed 
eyes,  sat  in  one  of  the  piazza  chairs  as  Mrs. 
Zerviah  Myrtle  rode  out  of  the  yard  ;  and  the 
grammar  teacher  —  so  little  like  Mrs.  Myrtle's 
quondam  nursery  -  maid  that  afternoon,  that 
Boggs,  duller  than  his  mistress,  was  seen  to  tip 
his  hat  as  he  yielded  her  the  road  —  the  gram 
mar  teacher,  a  little  pale,  a  little  startled,  per 
haps,  came  in. 

Two  or  three  of  her  scholars  had  been  cling 
ing  about  her.  The  children  were  fond  of  her, 
—  very.  She  had  been  with  them  now  a  year, 
"  growing,"  as  Margaret  had  written  me,  "  into 
the  idea  of  self-support  as  she  grew  into  that 
of  self-respect  ;  and  since  she  .is  quite  competent 
for  the  undertaking,  I  should  have  considered  it 
a  great  mistake  to  discourage  it ;  not  because 
she  sprung  from  what,  with  a  stupid  sarcasm  of 
ourselves,  we  are  fond  of  terming  '  the  laboring 
classes,'  but  precisely  as  I  should  encourage  it 
in  Jane  Briggs,  Christina,  Fanny  Myrtle." 

Miss  Trent,  as  I  was  saying,  hurriedly  dis 
persed  these  children  on  meeting  with  Mrs. 


The  White  Stone.  153 

Myrtle's  carriage,  and  hurriedly  stepped  up 
the  walk,  and,  without  any  remarks  whatso 
ever,  sat  down  on  the  piazza  at  Mrs.  Purcell's 
feet. 

Four  years  of  purity  and  Margaret  Purcell  had 
done  something  for  little  Nixy  Trent. 

A  little  of  her  old  fancy  about  dropping  Chris 
tina  "like  a  cloud"  into  Thicket  Street  might 
have  struck  one  of  the  Thicket  Street  girls  her 
self,  sitting  there  that  afternoon  at  Margaret's 
feet.  One  would  have  liked,  just  for  the  artistic 
experiment  of  it,  to  try  the  effect  of  her  in  No. 
19,  at  Jeb's,  at  Monsieur  Jacques's,  in  the  sharp 
shadow  where  the  chickweed  grew,  and  Moll 
from  the  dark  looked  out  at  her. 

Now,  these  had  been  four  very  quiet,  ordinary 
years,  not  of  the  kind  which  work  wonders  upon 
people,  not  of  a  kind  to  have  worked  wonders 
upon  Nixy  ;  and  she  had  consequently  developed 
in  those  respects  to  which  the  culture  of  quiet  is 
especially  adapted  ;  had  rested,  dreamed,  refined  ; 
fused  the  elements  of  a  character  rather  about 
ready  for  casting  than  ready  for  finish.  Poor 
Nixy's  life  was  one  of  those  which  bud  so  late 
that  a  hot-house  pressure  may  be  needed  to  save 
7* 


154  Hedged  In. 

it  from  wan,  frost-bitten  blossoms.  And  what 
pretty  thing  is  sadder  than  a  frosty  flower? 

In  other  words,  Nixy  had  rather  grown  than 
matured,  had  not  become  apt  in  analyzing  her 
self  or  other  people  ;  had  not,  as  we  say,  "put 
this  and  that  together."  Life  in  Thicket  Street 
was  a  hideous  dream.  Life  in  Gower  was  a  slow, 
sweet  waking.  If  ever  she  reasoned  far  about 
either,  —  perhaps  she  had,  —  it  was  in  a  very 
sleepy  or  a  very  secret  way.  Margaret  felt  op 
pressed  sometimes  with  her,  as  if  by  electricity 
in  the  air ;  it  seemed  as  if  something  in  her  must 
snap  before  long ;  as  if,  in  some  manner,  the  girl's 
life  had  got  upon  the  wrong  tension.  This  un 
certain  development  was  the  more  noticeable  in 
contrast  with  Christina,  —  a  creature  so  healthy, 
happy,  fitted,  and  fine!  —  symmetrical  as  the 
moon,  and  as  conscious  of  being  where  she  be 
longed. 

"  Things  have  always  come  at  you,"  said  Nixy, 
one  day,  vaguely  feeling  after  this  idea  ;  "  I  have 
always  had  to  come  at  things." 

It  seemed  to  Nixy  natural  enough,  for  Mar 
garet  had  taken  pains  that  it  should  so  seem, 
that  Mrs.  Purcell  should  have  admitted  her  into 


The  White  Stone.  155 

her  home ;  lung  fever  into  the  parlor ;  time  into 
Mrs.  Purcell's  heart  ;  human  nature  into  Chris 
tina's  ;  the  love  of  God  into  "  religion,"  and  Mr. 
Hobbs  (for  it  was  Mr.  Hobbs)  into  the  grammar 
school.  Yet  the  growing  woman  was  really  in  a 
very  unnatural  niche  in  life,  and  Margaret  scarce 
knew  whether  she  would  most  wish  that  she 
should  or  should  not  find  this  out. 

For  instance,  Margaret,  just  because  she  loved 
Nixy,  and  just  because  she  trusted  her,  regretted 
at  times  that  the  girl  seemed  —  as  she  did  —  so 
unconscious  or  regardless  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  not  always  been  worthy  of  love  and  trust 
In  anybody  else,  she  would  have  said  that  this 
argued  callousness  or  dulness.  At  other  times 
she  doubted  if  Nixy  were  either  unconscious  or 
regardless. 

She  doubted  somewhat  when  Nixy  sat  down 
at  her  feet  upon  the  piazza.  She  scrutinized  her 
keenly. 

Nixy  sat  remarkably  still.  Shadows  from  hop- 
vines  on  the  trellis  —  the  prettiest  shadows  in 
the  world  are  made  by  hop-vines,  and  Margaret 
runs  her  doors  over  with  them — fell  upon  her 
hands,  and  her  hands  moved  as  the  shadows 


156  Hedged  In. 

moved ;  otherwise  she  was  uncommonly  still. 
Mrs.  Purcell  thought,  as  she  watched  her  face, 
turned  a  little,  and  with  the  hair  dropped,  how 
fair  and  fine  a  face  it  was ;  how  womanly  and 
worthy  ;  how  rich  in  possibilities  that  life  would 
never  bring  to  it  ;  how  unmarred  by  the  dark 
certainties  that  life  had  brought. 

What  is  sin  ?  she  thought.  For  the  wind  pass- 
eth  over  it,  and  it  is  gone ;  and  the  place  thereof 
shall  know  it  no  more. 

Now  this  was  not  theology,  but  thankfulness  ; 
and,  to  prove  to  Margaret  that  it  will  never  do  to 
be  even  thankful  untheologically,  Nixy  at  that  in 
stant  lifted  her  eyes,  —  her  eyes  for  a  year  past  had 
been  like  breaking  clouds ;  sun,  moon,  and  stars 
were  darkened  in  them  just  then,  —  and  said,  — 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  never  get  away  from  it." 

"  Away  from  what  ? " 

«  The  —  sin." 

Nixy  spoke  very  slowly  and  solemnly. 

Margaret  could  not  have  been  taken  more 
thoroughly  off  her  guard  if  a  new-born  baby  had 
opened  its  mouth  before  her  and  talked  of  total 
depravity  and  confessed  original  sin.  But  all 
the  reply  that  she  made  was,  — 


The   White  Stone  157 

"  You  met  Christina  ?  "  —  this  to  give  herself 
time. 

"I  went  to  walk  with  her  —  yes;  but  I  had 
the  children,  and  the  doctor  overtook  us,  so  I 
hurried  on." 

"  The  doctor  agrees  with  you  about  the  exam 
ination  business  ? " 

"  Fortunately,  considering  he  is  chairman  of 
the  committee  ;  but  I  had  got  through  all  I-  had 
to  say  about  that.  I  was  not  rude  to  him,  I 
believe." 

Nixy  never  was  exactly  rude  to  Dr.  Burtis,  but 
she  was  always  ill  at  ease  with  him,  —  always  had 
been  since,  being  summoned  for  the  first  time 
professionally  to  Mrs.  Purcell's  house,  to  manage 
some  slight  indisposition  of  Christina's*  he  had 
come  suddenly  upon  her  sitting  by  Christina's 
sofa,  with  Christina's  head  —  such  a  moulded, 
fine  young  head  —  on  the  little  outcast's  shoulder. 

They  had  looked  each  other  in  the  face,  but 
neither  had  spoken. 

"My  friend,  Miss  Trent,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell, 
coming  in. 

Dr.  Dyke  Burtis  gravely  bowed  to  Miss  Trent. 

Of  how  near   he  had   been   to  sending  Miss 


158  Hedged  In. 

Trent  to  the  'sylum  where  he  had  sent  Ann 
Peters,  he  gave  from  that  hour,  in  Mrs.  Purcell's 
family,  no  sign.  Most  men  would  have  felt  it, 
perhaps,  to  be  "  a  duty."  For  what  did  Mrs. 
Purcell  know — how  much,  and  how  little  —  of 
Thicket  Street  Nix  ?  And  what  of  the  starry- 
eyed  girl  with  her  head  upon  Nixy's  shoulder  ? 
Dyke  Burtis,  after  a  keen  look  at  the  faces  of  the 
three  women,  had  concluded  that  all  this  was 
none  of  his  business,  and  had  kept  his  own 
counsel. 

Nixy,  to  spare  Mrs.  Purcell  the  pain  of  dwell 
ing  upon  a  painful  matter,  kept  hers. 

So  the  physician,  in  and  out,  as  Margaret  and 
her  growing  invalidism  fell  under  his  frequent 
care,  came  and  went,  and  gravely  smiled  or  spoke 
or  referred  or  deferred  to  the  little  castaway  of 
Thicket  Street ;  and  Nixy,  shrinking  through  her 
silence,  suffered  many  things  because  of  him. 
This  was  not  for  her  own,  but  for  Christina's  sake. 
It  cut  her  with  a  hurt  that  was  slow  in  healing 
to  be  reminded  of  Thicket  Street  with  Christina 
by. 

Long  after,  when,  both  for  her  own  and  an 
other's  sake,  the  fulness  of  time  had  come,  she 


The  White  Stone.  159 

opened  her  lips,  and  the  sacredness  with  which 
Dyke  Burtis  had  kept  an  outcast's  confidence 
was  treasured  among  those  "  ways  "  which  com 
manded  for  the  little  doctor  with  the  streaked 
beard  a  somewhat  singularly  tenacious  affection 
or  repugnance. 

"  Mrs.  Myrtle  — "  began  Margaret,  abruptly, 
when  Nixy,  after  her  allusion  to  the  physician, 
paused. 

But  Christina  came  in,  flushed  and  lovely, 
bounding  up  the  walk ;  the  doctor  at  the  gate 
touched  his  hat,  and  walked  with  ringing  steps 
away. 

"  It  sounds  like  a  march  to  battle  ! "  said  Chris 
tina,  pausing  with  bent  head  to  listen  to  the  doc 
tor's  tread.  She  so  liked  healthy,  happy,  reso 
lute  things !  And  she  had  such  a  healthy, 
happy,  resolute  way  of  owning  it ! 

Margaret,  so  thinking,  glanced  from  her  daugh 
ter's  pretty,  pleased,  expectant  attitude  to  Nixy, 
who  was  still  extremely  pale,  and  who  had  moved, 
at  Christina's  coming,  slowly  and  lifelessly  away 
into  the  garden-walk. 

"Nixy  cross  ?"  pouted  Christina,  and,  springing 
after  her,  —  into  a  shimmer  of  tall  white  lilies,  — 


160  Hedged  In. 

she  put  both  arms  about  her  neck  and  kissed  her. 
Margaret  observed  that  Nixy  stood  still,  and  did 
not  return  the  caress,  and  that  Christina,  puzzled 
and  pained,  walked  back,  and  left  her  standing 
alone  among  the  bruised  white  flowers. 

The  interruption  perhaps  did  no  harm.  Mar 
garet  was  prepared,  when  she  and  Nixy  were  at 
last  alone  and  undisturbed  together,  which  was 
not  till  after  supper,  to  come  at  once  to  the  point 
from  which  she  should  have  started.  She  did 
this  abruptly  enough. 

"Mrs.  Myrtle  will  tell  nothing,  Nixy.  She  is 
not  bad-hearted." 

"That  doesn't  so  much  matter,"  said  Nixy, 
slowly. 

"  What  does  matter  then  ?  " 

Margaret  spoke  more  quickly  than  gently. 
She  was  perplexed,  and  her  head  ached. 

"  I  don't  think  I  —  can  exactly  —  tell,"  said 
Nixy,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Mrs.   Myrtle  has  frightened  you,  Nixy  !  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Not  because  you  thought  she  would  gossip 
about  you  ? " 

"I  think  not." 


The   White  Stone.  161 

"  I  don't  understand,  then,  what  the  trouble 
is." 

¥ 

But  she  did,  undoubtedly. 

Nixy  made  no  reply.  Mrs.  Purcell  got  up  and 
paced  the  room  a  little,  after  her  old  fashion.  It 
was  long  since  she  had  exhibited  so  much  dis 
turbance  over  Nixy.  Nixy  sat,  as  she  had  sat 
upon  the  piazza,  uncommonly  still. 

Margaret,  pacing  the  room,  was  undecided 
whether  to  cry  over  her  or  shake  her.  In  the 
darkening  air,  Nixy's  dawning  sense  of  shame 
rose  like  a  mist  between  the  two,  and  chilled 
her  to  the  heart.  With  a  curious  inconsistency, 
Mrs.  Purcell  —  perhaps  because  her  head  ached 

—  felt  now  like  checking  the  very  germ  for  the 
growth  of  which  she  had  with  anxiety  watched. 
Nixy  had  been  wicked  ;  Nixy  ought  to  feel  that 
she  had  been  wicked.     But  Nixy  was  good,  and 

—  and,  as  nearly  as  she  could  come  at  it,  Nixy 
ought  to  feel  too  good  to  feel  wicked.     Why  rake  \ 
over  dead  ashes  for  the  sake  of  making  a  little    \ 
dust  ?     There  was  pure  fire  upon  the  altar  now, 
and   the    steps    thereto   were    swept    and    gar 
nished. 

Mrs.  Purcell  would    have  liked  to   send  Nixy 


1 62  Hedged  In. 

off  to  play,  like  a  child,  and  bid  her  forget  that 
she  had  been  a  naughty  girl. 

This  was  partly,  perhaps,  cowardice,  for  she 
was  fond  of  Nixy  ;  partly  headache,  as  I  ob 
served  ;  wholly,  whether  of  headache  or  of  'fond 
ness,  conquered  before  she  had  crossed  the  room 
half  a  dozen  times,  and  had  sat  down  in  the 
gathering  dusk,  and  had  bidden  Nixy,  by  a  si 
lent  gesture,  to  the  cricket  at  her  feet. 

Nixy  was  not  a  child.  She  could  not  be  sent 
to  play.  There  was  work  before  her.  Margaret 
thought  how  terrible  was  the  work  of  escaping 
even  a  forgiven  sin.  Were  there  never  to  be 
play-days  again  for  Nixy  ?  When  she  looked, 
through  that  rising  mist  that  had  chilled  all 
the  air  between  them,  at  the  young  girl's  con 
tracted  face,  her  heart  sank  within  her.  Poor 
Nixy  ! 

She  must  have  said  "  Poor  Nixy  ! "  aloud,  for 
Nixy  turned. 

"  It  was  for  you  that  I  minded,"  she  drearily 
said.  "  It  came  over  me  —  all  in  a  minute  — 
when  I  saw  her  —  when  I  saw  Mrs.  Myrtle  — 
that  people  would  know  —  and  Christina;  and 
that  —  " 


The  White  Stone.  163 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Margaret,  "  what  came  over 
you  ? " 

"  That  I  was  n't  like  —  you  ;  like  —  Christina. 
That  there  was  something  forever  and  forever 
that  people  must  not  know  !  That  I  was  for 
ever  and  forever  to  be  —  ashamed.  All  at 
once  !  "  said  Nixy,  hoarsely.  "  All  before  I  had 
time  to  bear  it,  —  and  then  I  did  n't  care  for 
Mrs.  Myrtle  or  for  all  the  world ;  but  I  under 
stood  what  I  had  never  understood  before.  I 
understood  that  I  was  ashamed  —  ashamed  !  " 

The  young  girl  stretched  her  hands  out  into 
the  dark,  and  wrung  them  bitterly. 

"  How  can  you  know  ?  "  she  cried  out.  "  I 
was  a  child.  You  took  me  and  loved  me.  I 
was  good.  I  was  happy.  I  forgot.  Sometimes 
I  thought.  Sometimes,  when  Christina  kissed 
me,  I  was  cold,  and  I  was  afraid.  Sometimes, 
since  I  have  taught  the  little  children,  I  have 
thought  of — of — I  have  remembered  that  —  " 

She  bowed  her  head  and  dryly  sobbed. 

"  All  the  year  I  suppose  it  has  been  growing, 
—  coming.  But  all  in  a  minute  I  understood! 
How  can  you  understand  ?  You  made  me  so 
happy  !  You  made  me  so  safe,  so  good  !  I  was 


l64  Hedged  In. 

a  child,  and  I  came  from  Thicket  Street,  —  and 
I  tell  you  that  they  do  not  understand  in  Thicket 
Street  how  to  be  ashamed  ! " 

"  I  was  so  young  —  I  had  no  mother  — 
God  forgot  me  —  and  I  fell," 

thought  Margaret.  Her  hot  tears  fell  on  Nixy's 
face.  She  put  her  arm  around  her  ;  she  stooped 
and  kissed  her,  she  felt  that  she  had  no  other 
speech  nor  language  for  her. 

But  Nixy  looked  up  as  one  who  stood  afar  off, 
and  said,  — 

"  I  am  ashamed  —  ashamed  !  " 
"  I  am  not  ashamed  of  you  !  "  cried  Margaret, 
impetuously;  but  Nixy  shook  her  head. 

"  I  sinned,"  she  said,  —  "  and  I  am  ashamed  ! " 

Margaret  felt  as  if  some  one  had  stricken  down 

her  strong  right  arm.     Nixy  seemed  in  an  hour 

to  have  grown  away,  out  of,  beyond  her  tenderest 

touch. 

"  God  help  her ! "  she  said,  and  fell,  by  an  in 
stinct,  upon  her  knees. 

I  have  been  told  that  she  broke  at  once  into 
vehement  prayer.  This  was  remarkable,  not  as  a 
fact,  but  because  Margaret  did  it.  She  was  not 
one  of  those  Christians  to  whom  prayer  in  the 


The   White  Stone.  165 


presence  of  others  is  an  easy,  even  a  possible 
thing.  She  never  prayed  with  the  sick,  the 
dying,  the  poor.  Tracts,  jelly,  Bibles,  flannels, 
were  distributed  prayerless  from  her  comfort 
ing  hand.  Her  own  child  had  scarcely,  since 
she  was  a  child,  heard  her  lift  up  her  voice 
before  the  Lord.  This  may  have  been  unfor 
tunate,  —  Margaret,  like  others  of  the  "  voice 
less,"  had  mourned  much  in  secret  over  it,  — 
but  so  it  had  been. 

For  the  little  castaway,  bowed  to  the  ground 
before  her  with  shame  and  sorrow,  the  sealed 
fountain  broke,  and  Nixy  —  for  the  first  time  and 
the  last  —  sat  hushed,  in  the  presence  of  her  sup 
plicating  voice,  — 

"  Friend  of  sinners  ! "  said  Margaret,  weeping 
much,  "  we  are  in  the  dark,  and  bewildered  and 
sick  at  heart.  Sin  hunts  us  out  and  chases  us 
about,  and  stares  at  us,  and  we  are  ashamed  and 
sorry ;  but  there  is  no  help  in  shame  and  no  re 
lief  in  being  sorry.  We  are  guilty  before  thee, 
and  stained.  Wherever  we  turn  our  faces  or  lift 
our  hands,  we  are  hedged  about.  There  is  no 
breath  left  in  us,  and  we  stifle  !  Be  thou  breath, 
freedom,  walking-space  before  us !  Take  the 


1 66  Hedged  In. 

hand  of  this  poor  child  of  thine,  —  see,  Lord !  I 
hold  it  up !  It  drops  from  mine  ;  strength  is 
gone  out  of  me.  Hold  it,  and  lead  her.  Surely 
thou  wilt  not  keep  her  sorry  overmuch  ?  She 
was  so  young,  dear  Lord,  and  no  man  cared  for 
her  soul.  Dost  thou  not  feel  her  young  tears 
upon  thy  bruised  feet  ?  Is  there  nothing  in  all 
thy  love  —  for  thou  art  rich,  and  we  are  bold  in 
begging  —  to  bid  her  smile  again  ?  Hast  thou 
no  promise — for  thy  promises  are  many,  and 
we  cannot  afford  to  overlook  even  a  little 
one  —  for  a  sinner  who  is  ashamed  ?  Wilt 
thou  give  her  everything  else  and  forbid  her  self- 
respect  ?  .  .  .  . 

"  Lord  !  thou  art  here  before  us ;  and  thine 
answer  comes.  Gather  the  poor  little  girl  in 
thine  arms  and  tell  her  —  for  I  cannot  tell  her  — 
that  she  shall  not  be  ashamed  of  herself,  for  thou 
art  not  ashamed  of  her ;  that  she  shall  respect 
herself,  for  thou  hast  had  respect  unto  her ;  that 
she  shall  honor  herself,  for  the  Lord  God  Al 
mighty  honors  her,  —  for  the  sake  of  Christ  our 
Saviour." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Margaret,  as  they  sat  in  the 


The  White  Stone.  167 

dark,  long  silent,  "  I  have  often  wondered,  and 
meant  to  ask  you,  about  your  name.  Nixy  must 
be  a  corruption  of  something." 

She  spoke  idly  enough,  thinking  only  to  divert 
Nixy  a  little  from  the  effects  of  a  very  painful 
evening  ;  but  the  words  struck  Nixy  with  a  sharp 
significance.  "A  corruption  of  something." 
Had  not  her  whole  life  been  a  corruption  of 
something  ? 

"I  believe  the  name  was  Eunice,"  she  sadly 
said. 

"  Eunice !  A  pretty  name.  It  has  a  soft, 
fine  strain  in  it,  like  some  of  Mendelssohn's 
songs,  —  Eunice.  Why  did  I  never  call  you 
Eunice  ? " 

"Because  I  was  not  soft  and  fine,"  said  poor 
Nixy. 

" '  As  a  prince  hast  thou  had  power  with  God 
and  hast  prevailed.  Thy  name  shall  be  no  more 
Jacob,  but  Israel/ "  Margaret  made  answer. 
"  Kiss  me,  Eunice  !  " 

She  smiled  and  patted  her  soft  hair.  Nixy 
tried  to  smile,  but  the  face  which  she  lifted  for 
Eunice's  first  kiss  was  solemn.  It  seemed  like  a 
baptismal  blessing  to  her. 


1 68  Hedged  In. 

"  Soft  and  fine  —  like  Mendelssohn's  songs. 
Eunice  —  Eunice  !  " 

The  poor^girl  said  it  over  —  and  choked. 

"You'll  remember  —  everything,  and  call  me 
-that?" 

"  I  can  remember  everything,  and  call  you  all 
of  that,"  said  Margaret,  grown  very  solemn  too. 
For  she  thought,  What  is  one  flaw  on  Carrara  ? 
The  hand  of  the  artist  can  mend  what  accident 
marred.  There  is  a  statue  in  the  master's  cur 
tained  studio.  There  is  another  at  the  street 
corner.  But  a  block  of  marble  will  make  the 
two,  —  and  there's  the  marble,  after  all.  Some 
thing  of  this  she  said  or  looked. 

Perhaps  Eunice  did  not  quite  understand  it ; 
but  she  crept  away  like  a  hushed  child  into  the 
gray  room  to  think  it  over. 

It  was  late  ;  Christina  had  gone  to  bed,  the 
house  was  still ;  a  tardy  moon  rose  as  it  had  risen 
on  the  first  night  that  she  had  spent  within  the 
delicate  gray  walls.  There  fell,  as  there  had 
fallen  before,  a  bath  of  pearly  mist  into  the  mid 
dle  of  the  quiet  room. 

The  young  girl,  after  a  little  hesitation,  un 
dressed,  crept  into  her  night-clothes  —  fine  and 


The  White  Stone.  169 

soft  as  Christina's  now  —  and  kneeled  down  in 
the  shining  bath.  She  folded  her  hands  and 
her  face  dropped.  She  spoke  aloud  to  her 
self,  — 

"Eunice  —  Eunice!" 

She  forgot,  for  the  moment,  and  in  the  sparkle 
of  the  silver  bath,  that  she  was  ashamed. 

She  thought  of  a  thing  which  she  had  read 
about  "a  white  stone,  and  in  the  stone  a  new 
name  written.  Which  no  man  knoweth  "  —  so  it 
was  said  —  "  saving  he  that  receiveth  it." 

She  felt  for  the  book  and  the  page  in  the  half- 
light,  opened  at  the  opulent,  reticent  words. 
Commentators  and  theologians  have  peered 
vaguely  at  their  "  metaphorical  construction." 
Sophists  and  mystics  have  dreamed  vain  dreams 
across  them.  To  this  young  girl  they  shone  like 
the  moonlight  in  which  she  knelt,  and  rang  like 
the  voice  which  said,  Go,  but  go  in  peace. 


1 70  Hedged  In, 


CHAPTER    XI. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  A  PANORAMA. 

CERTAIN  marked  changes  fell,  about  this 
^-^  time,  upon  Eunice  Trent.  With  some  of 
these  Margaret  found  herself  pleased,  by  others 
saddened,  by  others  perplexed ;  all  of  them  were 
natural. 

For  example,  she  took  a  fancy  for  the  wearing 
of  black  ;  even  her  still  gray  school  dress  slipped 
off  from  her  after  a  while.  The  children  asked 
her  once  if  she  were  in  mourning. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Is  this  best  ?  "  asked  Margaret. 

"  I  am  comfortable  so,"  Eunice  replied. 

"  Eunice,  look  there  !  "     •  ; 

A  gorgeous  October  sun  chanced  at  that  mo 
ment  to  be  dropping  over  a  certain  purple  hill 
which  peeps  over  Mrs.  Purcell's  garden  grounds 
into  the  western  windows  of  the  house.  An 
old  burial-ground  — -  Gower's  oldest  —  dotted  the 


Which  treats  of  a  Panwmvwx  yigJb 

slope  and  crowned  the  ascent,  and,  as  Margaret 
spoke,  the  ancient  stones  had  entrapped  the 
wealth  of  the  late  color  in  broken  but  brilliant 
masses.  The  headstones  looked  rather  like 
jewels  than  marble.  Shrubs  and  grass  and  sky 
were  shining.  The  clouds  rained  color.  There 
was  a  shower  of  lights. 

"  God  paints  the  graves  of  things,"  said  Mar 
garet,  earnestly. 

"  Not  murdered  things,"  said  Eunice,  very  low. 
"  Do  you  mind  ?  I  will  not  wear  black  dresses 
if  you  mind  ;  but  I  am  comfortable  so." 

Margaret  said  nothing,  and  the  subject  dropped 
there,  finally,  between  them. 

The  color  indeed  suited  Eunice,  or  Eunice 
suited  the  color.  Perhaps  the  girl  was  morbid, 
sentimental,  in  the  choice  of  it ;  for  nothing  is  in 
more  danger  of  sentimentality  than  penitence. 
The  maturing  woman  at  least  cooled  in  it  like  a 
mould.  Those  who  best  knew  and  loved  Eunice 
Trent  have,  I  think,  always  called  her  in  her 
graver  years  a  beautiful  woman.  This  beauty 
was  of  a  peculiar  kind ;  forever  a  prisoned,  wait-  \ 
ing,  indefinable  thing,  as  sad  as  the  beauty  of  a  N 
dead  child,  as  appealing  too,  and  as  holy.  The 
sadness  grew  with  the  holiness  of  it. 


1 72  Hedged  In. 

The  sadness  grew  rapidly  at  the  time  of  which 
I  write.  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle  was  a  little  fire, 
but  she  had  kindled  a  great  matter. 

Did  Eunice  live  in  fear  of  her  ?  In  fear  of  de 
tection  ?  In  dread  of  public  shame  ?  In  dread 
of  seeing  the  stars  go  out  in  Christina's  eyes  ? 
Was  her  mute  sorrow  a  terror  or  a  conviction  ?  a 
mood  or  a  purpose  ?  Margaret  wondered  much. 

Eunice,  as  usual,  surprised  her.  As  usual,  she 
disturbed  her  before  she  pleased  her. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said  one  day, 
with  great  abruptness,  "  whether  I  ought  not  — 
whether  perhaps  I  should  not  go  and  hunt  it  up." 

"  Hunt  it  up  ? " 

"The  child." 

Margaret's  rocking-chair  stopped  sharply. 

For  years  Eunice  had  not  mentioned  him. 
She  hoped  —  I  think  she  hoped  —  that  Eunice 
had  forgotten  him. 

"  Of  course  not !  "  she  said,  quickly,  —  "  of 
course  not !  What  induced  you  to  think  of  such 
a  thing  ?  " 

Eunice  sadly  smiled. 

"  I  have  thought  very  much  of  it  for  a  very 
long  time.  If  I  had  been  —  that  is,  if  I  had  had 


Which  treats  of  a  Panorama.       173 

no  one  but  myself  to  consider,  I  should  have 
tried  before  this  to' find  the  little  thing." 

"  Eunice,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell,  "  you  are  growing 
fearfully  morbid  !  "  Eunice  was  silent. 

"  Or  else,"  added  Margaret  slowly,  and  after 
a  pause,  in  which  her  sharp  rocking  indicated 
the  sharpness  of  her  mood,  —  "  or  else  you  are 
growing  as  healthy  as  the  Gospel  of  John, 
and  as  brave ;  and  it  is  I  who  am  sick  and 
a  coward.  I  wonder  what  Christina  would 
say !  " 

Eunice  shrank. 

"  Christina  loves  me,"  she  said,  in  a  scarcely 
audible  whisper.  "  Christina  never  knew,  never 
guessed.  Poor  Christina  !  " 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Purcell,  sud 
denly.  Eunice  had  a  pinched,  white  look  about 
the  mouth  that  alarmed  her. 

«  NO,  —  O  no." 

She  took  up  her  sewing,  and  her  needle  flew 
nervously  in  and  out. 

"  Christina  has  never  questioned  you  about 
your  former  life  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Purcell  more 
softly. 

"  Never  once." 


174  Hedged  In. 

"  You  are  quite  sure  that  she  has  never  —  sus 
pected  ? " 

"  She  loves  me  !  "  said  Eunice.  "  She  could 
never  have  loved  me  and  —  suspected.  Poor 
Christina  !  Poor  Christina  !  " 

"  Do  you  love  the  child  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Purcell, 
suddenly. 

"  No,"  said  Eunice,  quietly. 

"  You  have  no  maternal  longings  for  it  ? " 

"  No." 

"  You  have  no  desire  to  see  it  —  fondle  it  ?  " 

Eunice  shrank  again  all  over,  in  that  peculiar 
fashion  of  hers,  like  the  sensitive-plant. 

"The  child  was  not  to  blame  —  "  She  re 
membered,  as  she  spoke,  how  sternly  these  words 
had  dropped  from  the  stern  lips  of  old  Lize  in 
No.  19.  The  miserable  bed,  the  murder-stain 
upon  the  miserable  wall,  the  miserable  sights 
and  sounds  that  had  ushered  her  miserable  in 
fant  into  life,  stood  out  like  a  stereoscopic  pic 
ture  against  her  lightened  life,  and  turned  her 
for  the  moment  faint  and  sick.  So  perhaps  — 
who  knows  ?  —  a  soul  in  paradise  may  cower  at 
permitted  times  over  permitted  memories  of 
earth. 


Which  treats  of  a  Panorama.      i/S 

"  The  child  was  not  to  blame,"  said  Eunice. 
"That  is  all.  I  do  not  care  for  him,  but  I 
presume  God  does.  I  am  his  mother.  Noth 
ing  can  help  that.  I  should  not  want  to  die 
and  be  asked,  Where  is  the  baby  ?  Should 
you  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell.  She  felt 
that  the  outcast  was  growing  beyond  her  guiding 
hand.  In  moods,  she  felt  like  sitting  at  her  feet 
to  learn  of  her. 

"  Let  us  think  this  through,"  she  said.  "  If  it 
were  not  for  Christina  —  " 

"  If  it  were  not  for  Christina,  I  should  own 
and  rear  my  child,"  Eunice,  in  a  suppressed  but 
decided  voice,  replied.  "  If  it  were  not  for  Chris 
tina,  I  —  think  —  that  I  could  bear  it,  that  the 
rest  of  the  world  should  know  that  I  am  the 
mother  of  a  child.  I  do  not  think  people  would 
be  very  cruel  to  us.  Do  you  think  they  would  ? 
At  least  there  would  be  good  people,  Christian 
people,  —  people  who  could  not  be  cruel  to  us  — 
the  child  and  me  —  for  Christ's  sake." 

Mrs.  Purcell   remained   silent.      She   did   not  | 

I 
know  how  to  tell  her  how  cruel  Christian  people 

can  be. 


1 76  Hedged  In. 

Her  silence  ended  the  conversation,  and  the 
subject  was  not  renewed  for  many  days. 

The  way  for  its  renewal  was  paved  at  last  in 
an  unexpected  manner. 

It  happened  to  Eunice,  on  a  certain  day  in 
frosty  mid-autumn  weather,  to  be  detained  at  the 
grammar  school  by  a  headache,  —  one  of  her 
blind  headaches,  a  frequent  ailment  of  hers  at 
that  time, — overwork  only,  Dr.  Burtis  thought, 
unless,  perhaps,  some  slight  defect  in  the  circula 
tion  about  the  heart.  The  trouble,  though  simple, 
was  confusing  in  its  effects.  Christina  had  seen 
her  stagger  with  pain  once  or  twice  in  the  streets, 
and  was  apt  to  call  at  the  school-house  to  help 
her  home. 

On  this  particular  day  she  was  late,  and  Eunice 
sat  dizzily  waiting  alone  in  the  school-room, 
stupidly  watching  for  her  through  the  window, 
and  stupidly  following  the  stupid  course  of  a 
panorama  company  outside  in  a  little  blue  cart, 
about  which  all  the  children  had  gathered,  and 
were  shouting.  She  was  too  sick  to  think  much 
or  clearly.  She  sat — very  lovely  and  very  still 
—  with  her  head  upon  her  crossed  arms,  and 
her  soft  hair  loosened  against  her  cheek  ;  per- 


Which  treats  of  a  Panorama.       177 

haps  a  more  delicate  sight  for  being  ill,  but  a 
delicate,  fine  sight  in  any  event,  —  fine  as  the 
chasing  twilight,  and  as  mute. 

She  was  wondering  brokenly  if  that  were 
Christina  at  the  bend  of  the  road,  and  why  the 
little  blue  cart  should  stop  so  long  in  front  of  the 
school-house  door,  and  whether  the  panorama 
were  anything  that  the  children's  mothers  would 
rather  they  would  not  see,  thinking  to  go  and 
find  out,  and  thinking  that  she  was  quite  unable 
to  stir,  when  the  creaking  of  the  door  disturbed 
her  and  a  heavy  step  tramped  up  to  the  desk,  — 

"  Is  this  the  school-marm  ?  " 

Something  in  the  powerful,  monotonous  tones 
startled  her  with  a  vague  sense  of  familiarity,  and 
she  weakly  turned  her  head. 

"Is  this  the  school-marm  ?  I  called  to  see  — 
Good  Lor'  love  us  !  —  Nix  !  " 

Miss  Trent  was  in  too  much  pain  to  start ;  she 
slowly  raised  her  head,  and  slowly  smiled.  She 
had  grown  extremely  pale  —  gray;  but  her  smile 
was  very  sweet  when  she  said,  — 

"  Why,  Lize  !  " 

Whatever  happened,  she  could  not  be  ashamed 
of  old  Lize  ;  it  was  not  in  her.     But  she  thought, 
8*  L 


i;8  Hedged  In. 

"I  hope  the  children  will   keep  away,"  remain 
ing,  as  Lize  had  found  her,  extremely  pale. 

"  I  'm  beat ! "  said  Lize.  "  Nix  a  school-marm  ! 
And  I  and  Tim  and  the  panoraymy  comin'  agin 
ye  in  this  oncommon  manner  —  as  true  as  I  be 
in  my  senses  —  Nix  ! " 

"  Tim  !  "  said  the  "  school-marm." 

"  Yes,  Tim.  Come  home  o'  Christmas  last,  — 
Tim  did.  Did  n't  know  on  't,  did  ye  ?  All  of  a 
Christmas  afternoon  in  the  sun  I  sits,  rockin'  Mis' 
Jeb  Smith's  last  —  two  sence  you  was  there  —  at 
Mis'  Jeb  Smith's  window,  when  I  sees  the  blue  ' 
cart  and  the  panoraymy  and  Tim  a  rovin'  up  and 
down  Thicket  in  search  o'  his  mother,  by  which 
I  do  not  mean  to  excuse  myself  of  being  the 
mother  of  the  panoraymy,  but  of  Tim.  And  he 
see  me.  And  he  knows  me.  All  through  the 
window,  in  a  flash  —  and  I  put  Jeb's  baby  on  the 
floor — and  am  out  in  the  middle  o'  the  street. 

"  <  Hulloa,  Tim  ! '  says  I. 

"  '  Hulloa,  marm  ! '  says  Tim. 

" '  Glad  to  see  ye,  Tim,'  says  I. 

" '  Is  that  a  fact  now  ? '  says  Tim,  —  for  I  took 
on  awful  at  the  time  on't  about  the  shooting 
business,  and  Tim  warn't  likely  to  forget  it  ower- 
soon. 


Which  treats  of  a  Panorama. 

"  *  It  speaks  well  for  ye  now,  I  must  say  ! '  says 
Tim. 

" '  That 's  none  o'  your  lookout/  says  I. 

"  '  See  here,  old  lady/  says  Tim,  '  if  you  ain't 
ashamed  of  me,  nor  yet  of  the  panoraymy,  s'pose 
you  hang  on  ? ' 

" '  All  right,  my  boy/  says  I. 

"  So  I  goes  into  Jeb's  and  picks  up  my  duds, 
and  hangs  on  to  Tim  and  the  panoraymy,  — 
which  is  an  excellent  business  for  seein'  of  the 
country,  and  travellin'  adwantages  in  general,  — 
and  I  Ve  yet  to  see  the  cause  to  be  ashamed 
neither  of  Tim  nor  yet  of  the  panoraymy." 

"  '  I  alwers  kind  o'  considered  as  you  'd  be  ready 
for  me,  marm,  when  I  got  ready  and  fit  for  you/ 
says  Tim.  Tim  's  no  fool !  " 

"  I  am  as  glad  as  you  are,"  said  •  Eunice,  in 
an  honest,  steady  voice,  listening  through  it,  — 
brokenly,  —  "I  am  glad  with  all  my  heart.  You 
were  good  to  me.  I  never  forgot  you,  Lize." 

"  How  you  did  clear  out  in  the  dark,  poor 
gal ! "  said  Lize,  loudly,  "  with  that  there  heavy 
young  un,  and  you  but  two  weeks  sick  !  But 
how  the  mischief  come  you  here  ? " 

"  People  have  been  kind  to  me."     Miss  Trent 


i  So  Hedged  In. 

spoke  very  low,  —  listening.  Was  not  that  a 
step  outside  the  door  ?  Would  Lize  never,  never 
stop  ?  —  never  go  ? 

Lize,  on  the  contrary,  moved  nearer  to  the 
desk,  —  the  grammar  teacher  spoke  so  very  low, 
—  and  leaned  heavily  upon  it,  towering  brown 
and  gaunt  and  rough  as  a  lifetime  of  Thicket 
Street  could  make  her  close  to  Eunice's  little 
pinched,  fine  face,  uplifted  and  listening  — 

"  People  have  been  very  kind  to  me.  I  have 
led  a  changed  and  happy  life  — " 

"  Where  is  the  baby  ?  "  Lize  interrupted,  in  her 
loud,  echoing  whisper ;  it  could  have  been  heard 
throughout  the  room. 

"  I  deserted  it.  It  was  carried  to  the  Burley 
Street  Nursery." 

These  words  had  dropped  with  desperate  dis 
tinctness  from  her  lips,  when  Eunice  turned ; 
turned  —  listened  —  hushed  —  and  raised  her 
eyes. 

As  she  had  expected,  Christina  stood  just 
within  the  doorway,  leaning  against  one  of  the 
desks.  As  she  had  expected,  Christina  stood 
like  a  statue. 

I  think  she  was  hardly  prepared  for  the  frozen 


Which  treats  of  a  Panorama.       181 

horror,  loathing,  —  whatever  it  was,  a  thing  that 
struck  to  her  heart  like  death,  —  which  had  set 
tled  about  Christina's  lips  and  eyes. 

Her  own  face  twitched  spasmodically,  and  her 
hands,  where  they  lay  upon  the  desk,  wrung  each 
other  purple. 

Lize,  chattering  about  the  panoraymy,  noticed 
them,  stopped,  and  took  them  to  chafe  them  in 
her  great  brown  palms. 

Christina,  when  she  saw  the  old  woman  touch 
Eunice,  shivered  all  over.  Lize,  at  the  sound 
of  her  start,  turned,  saw  the  young  lady,  looked 
keenly  from  one  girl  to  another,  and  took  the 
whole  sight  in. 

"  I  Ve  made  a  bad  business  here."  She  looked 
back  at  the  young  teacher,  and  her  old  face  fell, 
much  pained. 

"  I  'd  rather  ha'  chopped  my  hand  off  than  to 
ha'  blundered  so,  Nix  !  I  'd  best  clear  out  o'  yer 
way  afore  I  'm  up  to  further  mischief.  I  might 
ha'  known  it  would  do  ye  no  good  to  be  seen 
chaffering  with  the  likes  of  me,  —  more  fool 
for  't ! " 

"  You  have  done  no  harm,"  said  Eunice,  stead 
ily,  —  "  no  harm  at  all.  It  was  better  so.  I  am 


1 82  Hedged  In. 

not  ashamed  of  you,  and  you  need  not  sorrow 
•over  what  you  said.  It  was  quite  as  well.  You 
were  good  to  me,  and  you  shall  not  sorrow  for 
fear  you  did  me  harm.  *It  was  no  harm.  By 
and  by,  when  my  head  does  not  ache  quite  so 
hard,  I  shall  not  be  sorry  —  not  sorry,  Lize." 

"  So  you  '11  not  come  out  to  see  the  «pano- 
raymy?"  said  Lize,  .a  little  regretfully,  turning 
as  she  tramped  down  the  school  -  room  aisle. 
"  Tim  would  take  it  as  an  honor  if  ye  would 
recommend  the  panoraymy  to  the  children,  of 
which  the  admission  is  half-price,  and  the  seats 
preserved." 

Eunice  gently  refused. 

"  Another  time,  Lize.  Perhaps  the  next  time 
you  come  through  town,  if — "  she  flushed  sud 
denly,  burning  red  (Christina  stood  so  still!) 
— "  if  I  am  here  the  next  time  you  come  through 
town." 

The  door  closed  behind  old  Lize  with  a  crash  ; 
Eunice  listened  to  her  thumping  tread  upon  the 
steps  ;  heard  her  shouting  to  Tim  that  "  the 
school-marm  was  sick  and  could  n't  be  both 
ered  "  ;  heard  Tim  shout  back  something  very 
uncomplimentary  to  the  school-marm ;  heard  the 


Which  treats  of  a  Panorama.       183 

little  blue  cart  rattle  off,  and  the  cries  of  the 
children  faint  away. 

When  all  the  noise  was  over,  she  raised  her 
head.  * 

Christina  stood  so  very  still ! 

To  her  dying  day,  Eunice  Trent  remembered 
just  how  the  school-room  looked  that  afternoon  ; 
how  Sarah  Jones's  slate  and  sponge  lay  upon  the 
third  desk,  second  row  ;  that  Beb  White's  little 
dinner-pail  was  upon  the  floor;  that  the  "big 
boy  "  had  tied  a  string  across  the  left-hand  aisle, 
and  chalked  a  profile  of  Mr.  Hobbs  upon  the 
right-hand  blackboard  ;  that  her  own  bonnet 
and  shawl  had  tumbled  from  their  nail  ;  how 
black  the  corners  of  the  room  were  ;  how  fast 
the  dusk  crept  in  ;  what  a  little  pale  streak  of 
light  there  was  left  away  beyond  her  sunset  win 
dow  ;  and  how  Christina,  in  her  white  sack, 
shone  out  —  so  still !  —  where  she  stood  leaning 
against  the  desk  beside  the  door. 

The  two  —  Eunice  at  the  desk,  Christina  at 
the  door  —  remained  for  some  moments  as  old 
Lize  had  left  them.  Eunice  was  the  first  to 
break  the  silence.  She  said,  — 

"  I  can  get  home  alone.     You  had  better  go." 


Hedged  In. 

All  that  she  had  been  to  Christina,  all  that 
Christina  had  been  to  her,  the  sacredness  of  one 
of  the  simplest,  sweetest  loves  of  woman  to 
woman  that  I  ever  knew,  seemed  to  Eunice  to 
step  down  in  the  dusky  school-room  between 
herself  and  the  shining  figure  by  the  door,  — 
like  a  palpable,  beautiful  presence ;  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  said  to  it,  — 

"  You  had  better  go." 

Christina  automatically  shook  her  head. 

"I  say  you  had  better  go,"  repeated  Eunice. 
"  There,"  as  the  door  opened  timidly,  "  here  is 
somebody  waiting  for  me.  Beb  ?  Yes,  little  Beb 
White  for  her  dinner-pail.  This  way,  Beb.  Beb 
will  wait  a  few  minutes  and  walk  home  with  me, 
won't  you,  Beb?  Miss  Purcell  has  another  er 
rand  to-night.  Go,  Christina  !  " 

She  spoke  with  much  decision,  and  much  self- 
command.  Christina  went. 

Eunice,  through  the  dark,  watched  the  beauti 
ful  palpable  thing  that  went  after  her  and  went 
with  her.  The  door  shut  them  both  out. 

"  Poor  Christina  !"  said  Eunice;  "poor  Chris 
tina  ! " 

She  said  nothing  more,  but  her  face  dropped 


Which  treats  of  a  Panorama.       185 

into  her  hands  heavily.  She  must  have  sat  in 
the  dusk,  with  her  face  in  her  hands,  for  some 
time.  The  room  grew  perfectly  dark.  Little 
Beb,  with  her  little  dinner-pail  in  her  lap,  sat  on 
the  platform. 

"  Are  you  sick  ? "  asked  little  Beb,  growing 
restless  at  last.  Her  teacher  started,  begged  her 
pardon,  and  took  her  home.  Little  Beb  kissed 
her  when  they  parted,  and  stroked  her  face. 
This  was  a  great  comfort. 


Hedged  In. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

EUNICE     AND     CHRISTINA. 

TV  /T  RS.  PURCELL  took  tea  alone  that  night, 
-L*A  and  felt  like  boxing  the  ears  of  both  the 
girls. 

Anybody  but  Margaret  would  have  been  what 
we  call  "  downright  cross,"  when  Eunice,  about 
the  middle  of  the  evening,  crawled,  dizzy  and 
white,  down  stairs,  and  felt  her  way  to  her 
cricket,  to  tell  her  all  that  had  happened. 

Margaret  was  not  cross,  but  Margaret  was 
worried,  and  thoroughly  unstrung,  and  she  broke 
into  bitter  self-reproaches. 

"  I  might  have  known  —  expected  it  !  My 
poor  girls  !  I  suppose  I  should  have  told  Chris 
tina  long  ago,  but  she  was  so  happy,  — you  were 
so  happy  !  My  poor,  poor  girls,  —  and  I  meant 
to  do  the  best  thing  for  you  both.  This  comes 
of—" 

Margaret   checked   herself.     What  would    she 


Eunice  and  Christina.  187 

have  said  ?  Something  far  better  left  unsaid, 
perhaps  ;  something  of  the  flitting  annoyance 
which  people  feel  when  a  favorite  experiment 
falters  or  fails.  What  if  this  "  experiment "  of 
doing  one  simple,  Christ-like  thing  by  the  neg 
lected  soul  which  chance  —  or  Christ  —  had 
flung  across  her  path  should  now,  and  after  all, 
and  for  years  to  come,  prove  the  reef  upon  which 
the  happiness  of  her  home  should  split  and  wreck 
itself? 

"  It  all  depends  on  Christina  !  "  she  said,  with 
some  bitterness  in  her  voice,  "  and  we  must  own 
it  is  hard  for  Christina.  What  has  she  said  to 
you  ? " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  at  all  ?  " 

"Nothing  at  all." 

"  Of  course  she  must  have  been  taken  off  her 
guard,  and  grieved  ;  but  did  she  give  you  no 
word  or  sign  of  affection  —  trust  ?  " 

"  She  gave  me  nothing.  I  asked  for  nothing. 
I  had  no  right  to  anything." 

Eunice  spoke  in  a  dull,  dry  way,  which  had 
a  singular  and  painful  effect  upon  the  ear.  It 
affected  Mrs.  Purcell  with  considerable  physical 


188  Hedged  In. 

"  You  are  sure  you  're  not  sick  ? " 

"Only  the  headache,  —  no." 

"  Where  is  Christina  ?  " 

"Up  stairs." 

"  I  will  go  and  call  her  down." 

"  No." 

"  I  will  send  you  up  to  her." 

"  I  should  not  go." 

"  Christina  is  behaving  like  a  school-girl ! " 

"  Christina  was  deceived.    Christina  loved  me." 

"  But  Christina  has  such  excellent,  straight 
forward  sense.  I  am  ashamed  of  her  !  " 

"That  is  not  right.  It  is  I  of  whom  you 
should  be  ashamed.  It  is  I  of  whom  Christina 
is  ashamed.  It  is  I  who  have  made  all  the 
misery.  I  wish  —  "  In  the  dull  dryness  of 
Eunice's  voice  something  snapped,  and  she  fal 
tered  into  a  cry  most  pitiful  to  hear. 

"  I  wish  it  were  right  to  wish  to  be  dead  !  I 
wish  it  were  right  to  wish  to  be  dead  and  out 
of  the  way  !  " 

All  Margaret's  mother's  heart,  touched  at  first 
for  her  own  child,  was  wrung  now,  in  this  mis 
erable  matter,  for  the  outcast  woman.  So  slight 
a  fact  is  the  pain  of  the  world  in  face  of  the 


Eunice  and  Christina.  189 

guilt  of  it !  Christina  only  suffered.  Eunice 
had  sinned. 

"  I  have  hurt  you  !  "  she  said. 

Eunice  shook  her  head  in  a  very  lonely  way. 
"  Not  much.  Never  mind.  Let  me  go." 

She  went  away  up  stairs  again,  and  shut  her 
self  into  her  room,  —  the  soft  gray  room  which 
Christina  called  "  so  like  Nixy,"  and  which,  by 
chance  or  by  fancy,  had  always  fallen  to  Eunice 
for  her  solitary  occupation.  A  few  changes  had 
crept  by  degrees  into  it  at  that  time.  The  pic 
tures  had  disappeared  ;  the  little  gray  statuettes 
were  gone  ;  the  sole  ornament  of  the  room  had 
become  an  odd  one,  —  a  cross  of  some  species 
of  white  wood,  uncarved  and  bare  ;  quite  a  large 
cross,  and  "  inconvenient  "  Christina  thought,  — 
though  I  believe  she  never  said  so.  Nobody 
said  anything  about  it,  or  interfered  with  the 
quaint,  Roman  Catholic  fancy  of  the  thing.  It 
stood  out  against  the  plain  tint  of  the  wall,  near 
ly  as  high  as  Eunice's  shoulder.  She  did  not 
say  her  prayers  to  it,  or  hang  her  beads  upon  it. 
As  nearly  as  I  can  learn,  she  never  did  anything 
more  heretical  than  look  at  it ;  "  liked,"  she  said, 
"  to  feel  that  it  was  about." 


19°  Hedged  In. 

When,  long  after  Margaret  was  asleep,  long 
after  the  house  was  still,  Christina,  that  night, 
came  in,  —  for  Christina  came  at  last,  —  she 
came  upon  a  striking  sight,  —  the  room  all  in  a 
gray  mist,  for  the  candle  had  burned  low ;  and 
Eunice,  in  he.r  black  dress,  at  the  foot  of  the 
white  cross. 

Christina  stopped  upon  the  •  threshold,  but 
whether  from  reverence  or  from  reluctance,  how 
should  Eunice  know  ? 

Eunice  neither  turned  nor  spoke.  She  wished 
that  she  could  drop  and  die  there,  and  never  turn 
or  speak  again,  and  so  never,  never  look  at  the 
figure  standing  in  the  door. 

"  Eunice  !  " 

Eunice  lifted  a  singular  face.  Whether  to  cry 
out  at  the  pain  of  it,  whether  to  marvel  at  the 
peace  of  it,  Christina  did  not  know.  Eunice  lifted 
her  face  and  rose,  and  looked  the  figure  in  the 
door  all  over,  once,  twice,  in  silence. 

Christina  had  on  a  white  wrapper  and  held  a 
little  lamp  in  her  hand.  She  held  it,  having 
come  into  the  dim  room  so  suddenly,  high  over 
her  head,  to  see  the  way ;  her  round  white  arm 
was  bare  and  her  hair  loose  ;  the  light  had  a 


Eunice  and  Christina.  191 

peculiar  effect  in  dropping  on  her,  and  her  eyes 
from  a  soft  shadow  peered  out  a  little  blindly. 

Something  about  her  reminded  Eunice  of  a 
picture  which  she  had  seen  of  the  woman  hunt 
ing  for  a  lost  piece  of  silver,  after  the  house  was 
swept. 

"You  cannot  find  it,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  can  ! "  said  Christina.  She  put  down 
her  lamp,  and  sat  down  quite  full  in  the  light 
of  it  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Eunice,  ex 
hausted,  sank  again  at  the  foot  of  her  great  cross, 
and  it  was  dark  where  she  sat. 

"  Come  here,"  said  Christina.  Eunice  shook 
her  head. 

"  Look  at  me  then."  Eunice  looked  at  her. 
Christina,  white  all  over, — white  to  the  lips, — 
sat  smiling.  All  the  stars  had  indeed  gone  out 
of  her  eyes,  but  they  shone,  and  something 
sweeter  than  starlight  was  in  them. 

"  I  should  like,  if  you  will  come,  to  kiss  you, 
dear."  Christina  said  this  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you."  Eunice  spoke 
with  dreary  quiet. 

"  If  you  will  come,"  repeated  Christina,  — 
Eunice  did  not  see  that  she  quivered  like  a  white 


*  92  Hedged  In. 

lily  which  the  wind  had  bruised,  —  "if  you  will 
come,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  how  I  hurt  you, 
wronged  you,  —  for  I  had  no  time  to  think,  and 
I  had  never  guessed,  never  dreamed  !  —  and  I 
loved  you,  Eunice,  I  loved  you  so !  " 

Christina  began  at  this  to  cry,  and  she  cried 
as  women  like  her  cry  when  their  hearts  are 
breaking.  What  did  she  expect?  Eunice  sat 
perfectly  still. 

"  Why  do  you  not  speak  to  me  ?  "  Christina 
cried,  at  length,  breaking  her  sharp  sobs  off.  "  I 
know  that  I  wronged  you,  hurt  you,  but  I  cannot 
bear  this,  Eunice  !  " 

"Hush!"  said  Eunice,  in  stern  surprise. 
"Why  do  you  talk  of  wrong  and  hurt?  You 
are  compassionate,  Christina,  but  you  are  un 
wise." 

"  But  I  love  you,  Eunice.  Is  that  compassion  ? 
I  honor  you.  Is  that  unwise  ?  " 

Eunice's  drawn  lip  quivered  a  little  ;  a  slow, 
warm  light  crept  over  her  face. 
"But  I  sinned,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  judged,"  said  Christina. 
"I  was  stained,  and  outcast." 
"  You  are  pure  and  honored." 


Eunice  and  Christina.  193 

"I  deceived  you." 

"  You  loved  me." 

"  But  now  you  can  never  forget." 

"  But  now  I  will  never  remember." 

"But  a  scar  is  a  scar  forever." 

"  My  eyes  are  holden,"  said  Christina  ;  "  I  see 
no  scar.  Eunice,  see  !  "  —  she  broke  from  the 
strained,  excited  mood  in  which  she  seemed  to  be, 
into  a  quiet,  faltering  voice,  —  "see,  this  is  how  it 
is  !  I  was  taken  all  in  a  minute  off  my  guard  — 
in  the  school-room  there ;  but  that  was  no  ex 
cuse  for  me.  I  wronged  you,  Eunice  !  I  am 
here  to  beg  your  pardon  for  thoughts  I  have  had 
of  you  to-night.  I  came  in  to  tell  you  —  that  I 
loved  you  —  loved  you — loved  you,  dear!" 

It  was  then  for  the  first  time  that  Eunice  fairly 
lifted  her  haggard  face,  and  held  up  her  arms. 

"Come  here  to  me,"  said  Christina;  "I  will 
not  lift  you  from  the  foot  of  that  cross.  I 
judged  you.  It  is  you  who  shall  come  to  me. 
There ! " 

But  when  she  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  Chris 
tina  ran  to  meet  her,  and  fell  upon  her  neck  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Stop  a  moment "  ;  Eunice  held  her  off.  "  I 
.9  M 


194  Hedged  In. 

shall  go  and  find  the  —  the  child  now.  You  will 
be  ashamed  of  me.  I  had  rather  you  would  not 
love  me  than  to  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"  Eunice,  look  here  !  " 

Eunice  looked  there,  —  straight  into  Christina's 
spotless  woman's  eyes,  —  and  it  seemed  to  her  as 
if  all  the  stars  of  heaven  were  shining  in  them 
as  the  stars  shine  after  storms. 


Une  Femme  Blanche. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

UNE     FEMME     BLANCHE. 

MY  DEAR.  JANE  BRIGGS  :  — 
I  am  crowded  for  time,  but  I  write  to 
tell   you  — for  I   would  prefer  that   you  should 
hear  it  frorri  me  —  that  we  have  at  length  iden 
tified  and  brought  home  Eunice's  child. 

This  was  done  without  much  difficulty.  The 
boy  remained  at  the  Burley  Street  Nursery, 
whither  he  had  been  sent  by  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myr 
tle  ;  it  being,  as  you  will  remember,  upon  Mrs. 
Zerviah  Myrtle's  steps  that  Nixy  left  the  child,  at 
some  period  previous  to  her  entrance  into  Mrs. 
Myrtle's  service. 

Mrs.  Myrtle,  I  fancy,  has  kept  a  kind  of  vague 
patronage  over  the  boy  ;  sent  him  bibs  and 
Bibles,  and  patted  him  on  the  head  on  inspection- 
day. 

He  could,  of  course,  have  been  easily  traced, 
had  we  not  possessed  the  clew  of  his  resemblance 


196  Hedged  In. 

to  his  mother.  This  resemblance  in  itself  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  identify  the  little  waif. 

The  little  boy  has  a  pleasant  face,  and  Eunice's 
eyes.  If  he  had  her  mouth  I  should  not  object 
in  the  least  to  him.  I  confess  to  some  secret 
anxiety  on  that  point.  A  baby  less  than  five 
years  old  has  no  mouth  whatever.  I  wonder  if 
the  poor  little  fellow  knows  how  unwelcome  he 
is!  He  looks  amazingly  uncomfortable,  it  strikes 
me  ;  but  that  may  be  because  his  mother  put 
him  into  white  aprons,  and  parted  his  hair. 

Whenever  I  think  how  the  future  happiness  of 
us  an — for  Eunice's  future,  as  you  understand, 
is  now  definitely  and  intelligently  my  daughter's 
and  mine  —  is  dependent  upon  that  little  neg 
lected  graft  of  shame  and  sin,  I  am,  I  own,  un 
comfortable. 

I  do  not  regret  the  step,  but  it  is  a  difficult 
one  for  us  all  to  take.  Poor  Eunice  .1  suppose 
was  right ;  I  could  not  gainsay  her  quiet  "  God 
cares  for  the  baby,  if  I  don't "  ;  and  what  we 
have  undertaken  we  shall  thoroughly  perform,  — 
but  poor  Eunice  is  in  a  very  narrow  place. 

The  child  has  been  in  the  house  now  two 
days.  His  mother  is  uneasy  and  pale  ;  watches 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  197 

him  carefully,  kindly,  —  never  fondles  him  ;  seems 
very  nervous  and  restless,  evidently  perfectly 
prepared  for  whatever  cloud  we  are  drifting 
to  windward  of. 

By  my  advice  she  remains  at  her  post  as 
grammar  teacher.  Whatever  social  degradation 
is  in  waiting  for  her,  she  shall  not  assume  that 
she  can  be  degraded.  Christianity  does  not 
patch  up  a  sinner,  it  restores  him.  In  Christian 
theory  Eunice's  history  is  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
Christian  practice  may  bind  her  budding  youth 
down,  hands  and  feet,  with  it ;  but  Christian  prac 
tice  shall  do  it  in  teeth  of  the  gospel  stories,  and 
under  the  very  astonished  eyes  of  Christ. 

I  have  not  bounded  into  this  feeling  about 
Eunice,  —  you  know  me,  Jane,  —  but  perhaps  it 
is  the  stronger  because  I  acquired  it  by  such  a 
vacillating,  jerky  process.  Christina,  whose  ar 
rowy  intuitions  failed  her  once  for  a  few  of  the 
most  miserable  hours  that  have  ever  darkened 
our  home  life,  accepts  my  judgments  in  this  mat 
ter,  with  "  improvements."  I  am  learning  rather 
to  lean  upon  than  to  guide  my  maiden  child  in 
unfurling  sail  for  the  outcast's  frowning  weather. 

"Whatever  happens,  I  believe  we  are  ready  for 


198  Hedged  In. 

it,"  Christina  said  this  morning,  with  compressing 
lips.  "  It  seems  as  if  the  Lord  and  you  and  I 
might  make  a  place  for  Eunice  and  the  baby  in 
this  world  !" 

The  relations  between  Eunice  and  Christina 
have  grown  of  late  singularly  fitted,  singularly 
sweet.  I  take  great  comfort  in  them.  Whatever 
else  may  come,  I  shall  rest,  as  I  grow  sick  and 
old^ —  perhaps  I  should  say  sicker  and  older, — 
in  seeing  my  two  girls  at  peace  together. 

Eunice  has  crowned  my  life  with  a  kind  of 
oriental  opulence  of  blessing,  —  a  gorgeous  priv 
ilege.  So  it  seems  to  me  in  looking  back.  So  it 
grows  upon  me  in  looking  on.  The  struggles 
which  she  has  cost  me,  the  annoyances,  doubts, 
dreads,  perplexities,  pains,  risks,  were  but  the 
ushers  in  the  ante-room  of  a  great,  unworthy  sense 
of  use  and  the  highest  joy  in  life,  —  the  joy  of 
uses. 

Of  all  the  debt  under  which  the  outcast  child 
has  laid  me,  the  heaviest  and  the  sweetest  is  her 
influence  over,  and  her  affection  for,  Christina. 

My  daughter  and  I  unite  in  the  feeling  that  it 
is  the  least  which  we  can  do  for  her,  to  take  her 
poor  baby  into  our  family,  and  help  her  —  as 


Une  Femme  Blanche.    .          199 

Nixy  used  to  say  —  "  help  her  bear  what  folks 
shall  say,  and  all  that." 

At  this  writing,  as  you  see,  her  relations  to 
society  are  weighing  in  the  balance.  Fortunate 
ly,  —  I  say  fortunately,  for  it  will  save  the  poor 
girl  some  inevitable  disquiet,  —  we,  as  a  family, 
go  into  what  is  called  "company"  very  little; 
Eunice,  less. 

I  doubt  if  there  are  two  cultivated  Christian 
families  among  our  acquaintances  who  would  in 
vite  Eunice  to  their  parlors,  after  she  shall  have 
sat  in  my  pew  next  Sunday  with  her  little  boy. 
This  may  be  natural,  may  be  inevitable ;  it  is 
none  the  less  uncomfortable. 

I  anticipate  some  assistance,  much  sympathy, 
in  what  is  before  us  all,  from  one  Christian  man 
at  least,  —  our  physician,  Dr.  Burtis.  I  do  not 
see  but  that  he  treats  Eunice  with  as  much  re 
spect  since  as  before  he  walked  in  yesterday 
morning  and  found  her  sitting  with  her  child 
upon  her  lap.  Certain  points  in  the  doctor 
please  me,  though  his  beard  is  as  streaked  as  a 
zebra.  I  have  had  flitting  fancies  —  But  non 
sense  !  There  is  the  dinner-bell  too. 

More,  on  a  later  or  less  hungry  occasion. 


200  Hedged  In. 

The  storm  for  which,  at  the  dating  of  this  note, 
the  three  women  sat  holding  their  breath  in  wait 
ing,  broke  quickly  and  naturally. 

The  little  Burley  Street  baby  had  been,  per 
haps,  four  days  in  Mrs.  Purcell's  family  before 
all  Gower  was  agape ;  five,  before  Gower  was 
aghast ;  six,  before  Gower  was  aggrieved  ;  seven, 
before  Gower's  grammar-school  committee  called 
upon  Miss  Trent. 

Five  respectable,  virtuous,  pious,  "prominent" 
men,  —  fathers  of  respectable,  virtuous,  pious, 
prominent  families,  —  "three  selectmen  and  two 
gold-headed  canes  !  "  whispered  Christina,  trying 
to  make  Eunice  laugh.  But  poor  Eunice  did  not 
even  try  to  laugh. 

"I  would  rather  they  were  —  women,"  she 
said,  and  stood  and  trembled. 

"  It  is  no  business  for  you  !  "  said  Mrs.  Purcell, 
with  her  eyes  very  much  lighted,  and  pushed  her 
aside. 

The  committee  were  both  surprised  and  em 
barrassed,  either  at  the  lady's  unexpected  en 
trance,  or  by  something  in  her  appearance  after 
she  was  there.  Mrs.  Purcell  begged  their  pardon 
for  her  intrusion,  and  with  much  courtesy,  but 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  201 

much  decision,  excused  Miss  Trent  in  her  own 
name,  pointedly  inquiring,  Could  they  transact 
their  business  with  her? 

The  spokesman  coughed,  deferred  to  a  gold 
cane,  a  cane  consulted  a  selectman,  a  selectman 
another  selectman  ;  the  other  selectman  de 
murred,  deferred,  consulted,  coughed,  and  the 
spokesman,  having  "swung  around  the  circle" 
(though  he  did  not  know  it,  it  was  so  many  years 
ago),  undertook  the  individual  responsibility  of 
undertaking  to  make  Mrs.  Purcell  undertake  to 
understand  the  peculiar  delicacy  —  "  pe-^iar 
delicacy,  my  dear  madam  "  —  of  the  position  in 
which  he,  the  spokesman,  as  spokesman,  and 
they,  the  selectmen  and  gold  canes,  as  select 
men  and  gold  canes,  were  unavoidably  and 
most  undesirably  placed. 

"The  fact  being,  my  dear  madam,  that  the 
guardianship  of  youth  and  the  position  of — of 
—  you  might  say,  pickets,  —  pickets,  madam,  in 
the  great  forces  of  youthful  culture,  are  —  in 
fact  are  sacred  trusts  —  sacred  trusts  !  " 

To  this  Mrs.  Purcell  cheerfully  assented. 

"  And  however  unpleasant,"  pursued  the  Com 
mittee,  "  however  ////pleasant,  as  well  as  unfor- 


202  Hedged  In. 

tunate  and  undesirable,  it  may  oftentimes  be  to 
perform  the  duties  attendant  upon  those  trusts, 
—  yet  the  future  of  our  youth  —  " 

"  Precisely,  sir,"  assisted  Mrs.  Purcell. 

"  Depends  !  "  continued  the  Committee,  red 
dening,  — "  Spends  upon  the  faithfulness  with 
which  such  duties,  however  unfortunate,  are 
performed.  And  when  reflections  upon  the 
character  of  a  hitherto  much  respected  and 
valued  instructor  of  youth  — " 

The  Committee  paused. 

"  Go  on,  sir,"  urged  Mrs.  Purcell. 

("Won't  help  me  an  inch,  that  's  clear," 
thought  the  Committee.) 

"  When  such  reflections  as  have  been  this 
week  cast  upon  the  character  of  Miss  Trent 
are  thrust  upon  our  attention,  madam,"  broke 
out  the  Committee,  bluntly,  "  the  matter  must  be 
looked  into,  that  's  all !  And  that  —  begging 
your  pardon  —  is  what  we  are  here  for." 

"  So  I  supposed." 

But  Mrs.  Purcell  supposed  nothing  further, 
and  the  business  was  fast  becoming  an  awkward 
one,  when  a  gold  cane  knocked  it  slowly  upon 
its  feet,  by  slowly  and  very  solemnly  inquiring, — 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  203 

If-  she  -  were  -  prepared  -  to  -  de  -  ny  -  the  -re 
flections  -  cast  -  upon  -  the  -  char  -  acter-  of-  the  - 
young  -  lady  -  understood  to  be  re  -  siding  in  her 
fam  -  ily  ? 

To  this  Mrs.  Purcell  replied  quietly  in  the  full 
negative. 

The  five  committee-men  arched  five  pairs  of 
eyebrows,  and  paused  again. 

"  Miss  Trent's  child,  as  undoubtedly  you  have 
heard,"  pursued  Mrs.  Purcell,  in  a  very  even 
voice,  "is  at  this  time  under  my  roof.  Miss 
Trent's  past  history  has  been,  in  some  respects, 
a  very  unfortunate  one.  Of  Miss  Trent's  pres 
ent  character  and  position  in  the  confidence  of 
that  society  which  is  formed  by  character,  there 
cannot  be  found,  in  Gower,  two  opinions,  I 
think." 

"  Perhaps  not,  madam,  —  perhaps  not ;  un 
doubtedly  not.  But  our  position  as  —  as  pick 
ets  of  educational  interests,  and  the  future  of 
our  impressible  youth,  demand  —  as  you  must 
own,  madam  —  that  something  should  be  done 
about  this  extra -ordinary  case.  Perhaps  —  con 
sidering  the  sacred  interests  of  youth,  and  the 
—  the  blamed  awkwardness  of  the  affair ! "  ex- 


2O4  Hedged  In. 

ploded  the  spokesman,  with  a  sudden  influx  of 
energy,  if  loss  of  dignity,  "  Miss  Trent  might 
feel  inclined,  for  the  sake  of  all  parties,  to  — 
that  is,  to  resign,  madam ! " 

The  spokesman  drew  breath,  and  wiped  his 
forehead. 

"  Are  you  not  satisfied,"  queried  Mrs.  Purcell, 
"  with  Miss  Trent's  intrinsic  qualifications  for 
her  present  position  ?  " 

"  Why  —  yes,  madam,  —  yes  —  yes  ;  on  the 
whole,  yes.  The  young  lady  has  indeed  given 
very  particular  satisfaction  to  the  Board  since 
she  has  been  at  the  post  of  duty  in  question,  — 
very  particular  satisfaction." 

"  You  have  found  her  to  be  able,  faithful,  con 
sistent,  an  intelligent,  active,  pure-minded,  pure- 
lived  lady,  in  all  her  connections  with  your 
school  ? " 

"  Perfectly  so,  —  perfectly  ;  on  the  whole,  all 
that  we  could  have  desired  for  our  purposes 
in  that  department,  which  can  but  make  'the 
present  crisis,  as  you  see,  my  dear  madam,  all 
the  more  unfortunate,  as  the  parents  of  sev 
eral  of  our  youth,  in  demanding  the  young 
lady's  resignation  from  her  post  of  responsibility 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  205 

over  the  tender  infant  heart,  have  already  ob 
served." 

"  Since  this  young  lady  has  not  as  yet  cor 
rupted  beyond  repair  the  impressible  infant 
minds  of  Gower  —  " 

Mrs.  Purcell  checked  herself,  and  in  a  different 
tone  and  very  earnestly  said  :  — 

*  Gentlemen,  I  presume,  as  you  say,  that  you 
are  in  a  very  awkward  position,  but  it  seems  to 
me  —  for  I  never  have  been  a  picket  in  the  forces 
of  youthful  culture  —  a  very  simple  position  to 
get  out  of.  Look  at  the  matter !  This  young 
girl,  by  your  own  showing,  has  lived  without 
guile  among  you.  I  give  you  my  testimony  as  a 
Christian  lady  —  whatever  that  is  worth  —  to  the 
purity  of  her  private  character.  It  strikes  me 
that  it  would  be  good  sense  not  to  be  over-hasty 
in  superseding  a  trusted  veteran  in  Gower's  edu 
cational  attacks  on  Gower's  infant  mind.  It 
strikes  me  that  it  would  be  good  Christianity,  — 
I  would  beg  your  pardon  for  introducing  Chris 
tianity  into  business,  if  I  were  not  talking,  as  I 
believe  I  am,  to  Christian  men,  —  it  strikes  me 
that  it  would  be  good  Christianity  to  heal  rather 
than  to  cripple  a  young  life  like  Miss  Trent's." 


206  Hedged  In. 

The  committee,  somewhat  ill  at  ease,  implied 
that  Mrs.  Purcell  was  well  known  to  be  an  ex 
cellent  Christian  woman,  and  quick  in  her  Chris 
tian  sympathies,  for  which  the  committee  highly 
respected  her  ;  that  Mrs.  Purcell's  remarks  would 
be  —  in,  for  instance,  a  church  matter  —  very 
much  to  the  point  of  the  subject,  but  that  when  it 
came  to  the  business  of  the  week,  —  and  the  com 
mon  look  of  things, — and  the  guardianship  of 
the  youthful  mind,  and  responsibilities  to  the 
State  — 

Mrs.  Purcell  interrupted  here,  by  inquiring 
concisely  if  she  were  to  understand  this  as  a 
formal  dismissal  of  Miss  Trent  from  her  posi 
tion. 

"  Hardly  that,  my  dear  madam,  —  hardly  that ; 
our  chairman  and  one  other  member  of  the  com 
mittee  being  out  of  town,  we  have  been  as  yet 
unable  to  take  formal  decisive  action  upon  the 
matter,  —  indeed,  were  anxious  to  spare  Miss 
Trent  as  much  as  possible  in  that  respect ;  but, 
as  the  tide  of  public  feeling  is  so  strong,  we 
thought  that  perhaps  a  voluntary  resignation  —  " 

"  You  condemn  your  prisoner  untried,"  said 
Mrs.  Purcell,  decidedly.  "I  should  prefer,  as  so 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  207. 

little  remains  now,  apparently,  which  can  be 
'spared  Miss  Trent/  that  there  should  be  a 
formal  action  taken  on  this  business  before  we 
hold  any  further  conversation  of  this  kind.  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  speak  for  Miss  Trent  without 
consultation  with  her,  since  she  has  placed  her 
self  entirely  under  my  advice  in  a  matter  so 
difficult  and  painful  for  a  young  girl  to  manage 
personally.  I  should  prefer  that  the  matter  be 
put  through  whatever  red-tape  is  necessary,  and 
that  Miss  Trent,  if  dismissed  from  her  position, 
be  openly  and  formally  dismissed." 

Within  an  hour  after  the  departure  of  the 
committee  from  Mrs.  Purcell's  parlor,  the  door 
bell  pealed  nervously  through  the  house,  and  Mr, 
Hobbs  peremptorily  summoned  Eunice  to  the 
door. 

"Just  in  from  the  station,"  panted  Mr.  Hobbs, 
tipping  his  hat  (poor  Eunice  noticed  this)  in 
hurried  respect,  "and  I  find  the  whole  world 
upside-down  !  Called  to  tell  you,  young  lady, 
not  to  give  it  up !  I  can  stand  on  my  own  feet 
yet,  and  so  can  you.  What 's  the  use  of  your 
feet  if  you  don't  ?  Can  you  answer  me  that  ? 
No!  You  shall  hear  from  me  again.  Yes,  yes, 


208  Hedged  In. 

yes ;  you  shall  hear  from  me  again  —  and  the  doc 
tor  '11  be  on  hand  before  night.  There  's  canes 
enough  in  that  committee,  but  it 's  poorly  off  for 
understanding,  the  committee  is.  I  give  it  up 
if  I  can't  stand  out  against  the  whole  of  'em ! " 

I  have  always  understood  that  Mr.  Hobbs  did. 
The  particulars  of  the  affair  I  have  forgotten,  if 
I  ever  knew.  The  result  of  several  agitated 
meetings  of  the  school-committee,  conveyed  by 
Dr.  Burtis,  through  Mrs.  Purcell,  to  Miss  Trent, 
was  a  formal  request  that  the  grammar  teacher 
would,  for  the  present,  retain  the  position  which 
she  had  —  the  chairman  was  instructed  to  add 
—  hitherto  held  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the 
Board. 

The  conditional  nature  of  the  proposition  an 
noyed  Miss  Trent.  Perhaps,  left  to  herself,  she 
would,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Hobbs,  have  "  given  it  up  "  ; 
but  Margaret  and  the  doctor  overurged  her,  and 
the  young  teacher  did  not  at  that  time  resign. 

Indeed,  what  could  she  do  ?  With  the  sup 
port  of  her  little  boy  just  fallen  upon  her,  to  be 
thrust  disgraced  from  her  desk  at  school  was  to 
be  thrust  disgraced  from  every  practicable  means 
of  earning  a  livelihood.  Who  would  have  con- 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  209 

i 

fidence  in  the  outcast  woman  whom  Gower's 
grammar-school  committee  had  delighted  to  dis 
honor  ?  What  chance  was  there  for  her  in  the 
world,  if  she  should  step  out  into  it  with  a  child's 
fingers  dragging  at  her  hands  ?  The  Scarlet  Let 
ter  was  upon  her.  The  little  Burley  Street  Nur 
sery  baby's  eyes  were  a  living  advertisement  of 
her  shame.  Since  she  held  up  her  brave  young 
head  and  bore  it,  —  for  Christ's  sake,  who  had 
forgiven  her,  —  what  could  good  men  and  women 
do  but  throw  their  stones  and  pass  her  by  ?  To 
have  concealed  her  story,  to  have  cloaked  her 
sin,  would  have  been  quite  another  matter.  So 
ciety  might  have  suspected,  society  might  have 
been  assured  of  it,  but  as  long  as  the  poor  girl 
deserted  her  own,  denied  her  flesh  and  blood, 
society  would  have  dealt  —  a  little  shyly  with 
her,  perhaps,  but  society  would  not  have  refused 
her  bread  and  butter. 

Now,  less  for  the  sin  than  for  the  acknowledg 
ment  of  sinning,  —  and  for  the  sake  of  a  single 
sin,  and  the  sin  of  a  child,  and  the  sin  of  a  moth 
erless  Thicket  Street  child,  —  the  penitent,  pure 
woman  was  a  branded,  manacled  thing. 

Within  a  week  after  she  brought  the  little  boy 


210  Hedged  In. 

home,  Eunice  began  to  comprehend  this.  Pre 
pared  as  she  was  for  it,  blindly  prepared  for  any 
thing,  when  the  tangible  facts  of  the  case  faced 
her  she  felt  bewildered.  She  was  so  very  young  ! 
Years  upon  years  stretched  out  before  her  —  fore 
doomed.  Society  had  hedged  her  in  on  every 
side. 

"  I  am  not  bad  !  "  she  said,  turning  drearily  to 
Margaret,  and  holding  up  her  hands  as  if  to  be 
lifted.  "  They  know  I  am  not  bad  !  It  was  so 
long  ago,  —  and  I  have  been  so  sorry  !  And  no 
body  taught  me,  told  me.  Have  n't  I  been  a 
good  woman  long  enough  to  belong  in  a  good 
woman's  "place  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  of  a  thing  called  living  down, 
or  living  out,  the  ghost  of  such  a  history  as 
yours,"  said  Margaret,  firmly.  "  There  are  men 
on  that  grammar-school  committee  who  have 
done  it.  I  never  knew  a  woman  who  did.  If  a 
woman  can,  you  shall  !  " 

"  If  a  woman  can."  Can  she  ?  Since  sin  was 
sin,  and  shame  was  shame,  One  only  has  made 
this  an  easy,  if  indeed  a  possible,  thing  beneath 
the  sun.  His  theology  preached  it  ;  his  prac 
tice  pushed  it.  He  risked  his  reputation  for  it. 


OF   THE 

fl  V  E  *S  I T 


Une  Femme 

He  multiplied  instances  to  brii 
notice.  He  left  it  graven  with  a  pen  of  iron, 
and  with  the  point  of  a  diamond,  upon  the  record 
of  his  life :  This  Man  eateth  with  publicans 
and  sinners.  To  him  first,  last,  and  only  in  his 
church  the  sin  of  a  woman  was  not  eternal. 
Certain  of  his  followers  have  groped  after  this 
intricate  charity,  —  but  it  is  a  subtile  thing,  and 
high  ;  who  can  attain  unto  it  ?  What  if,  in 
some  distant  unearthing  of  graces  in  the  Chris 
tian  standards  of  thought  and  act,  it  shall  be 
said,  This  was  the  very  stone  which  the  builders 
rejected  ? 

Margaret  felt  very  much  as  if  she  were  making 
an  attack  upon  the  whole  superstructure  of  re 
fined  Christian  custom,  when  she  sent  her  daugh 
ter  and  Eunice's  little  boy  to  accompany  Eunice 
home  from  school  one  afternoon,  when  gossip 
was  at  its  busiest  with  the  young  teacher's 
name  ;  and  when  grave,  decorous  parents  were 
gravely,  decorously,  and  daily  removing  their 
children  from  Miss  Trent's  charge,  —  for  this 
thing  was  done  to  an  alarming  extent  within 
a  fortnight  from  the  period  of  the  compromise 
offered  by  the  committee  between  the  future  of 


212  Hedged  In. 

the  infant  mind  and  the  ruin  of  a  young  girl's 
good  name. 

"  Three  new  vacancies  to-day,"  said  Eunice, 
sadly  smiling,  as  she  and  Christina  and  the  child 
came  down  the  school-house  steps.  "  Are  you 
not  ashamed  to  walk  through  the  streets  with 
me  ?  See,  the  sidewalk  is  full  of  people." 

"  Do  I  look  ashamed  ? " 

Christina  drew  Eunice's  trembling  hand  close 
upon  her  arm,  and  there  was  something  in  the 
firmness  and  tenderness  of  the  touch  which 
gave  Eunice  a  protected,  comforted  feeling, — 
the  stronger  because  of  Christina's  youth  and 
innocence. 

All  the  streets  of  the  little  town  were  full,  as 
they  went  home  together.  People  nodded  and 
passed ;  people  stared  and  passed  ;  people  whis 
pered  and  passed.  Certain  of  the  school  commit 
tee  touched  their  hats  with  ominous  solemnity. 
Sarah  Jones  and  her  father  crossed  the  street 
to  avoid  a  meeting  with  the  three.  Little  Beb 
White's  mother,  Christina  noticed,  drew  away  her 
dress  where  it  touched  in  passing  the  poor  little 
fellow  trudging  along  at  Eunice's  side.  The 
night  fell  fast,  and  the  lights  came  out,  and  the 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  213 

golden  web  seemed  to  Eunice  to  net  her  in  as  it 
had  netted  her  in  before.  She  felt  tangled,  lost. 

"  Leave  me  to  get  out  alone,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  nervous,  Eunice.  Do  not  try  to 
talk.  Hush  !  Do  I  look  as  if  I  could  leave  you 
to  get  out  alone  ?  Look  again  !  There  !  Give 
me  the  boy.  You  are  too  tired  to  lead  him." 

Christina  drew  the  little  fellow  to  her  side,  and 
led  him  gently  all  the  way  home.  Her  eyes  were 
bright,  her  cheeks  flushed  ;  she  carried  her  head 
with  a  certain  pride  which,  to  Eunice's  excited 
fancy,  seemed  for  the  moment  rather  to  widen 
than  to  bridge  the  gulf  between  them.  She  al 
most  wished  that  Christina  were  ashamed  of  her. 

When  Christina,  thinking  to  say  a  pleasant 
thing,  said,  — 

"  Never  mind  the  people,  Eunice.  I  do  not 
care.  What  harm  can  they  do  me  ?  "  —  she  re 
membered,  with  a  singularly  keen  sense  of  dis 
comfort,  a  thing  which  Monsieur  Jacques  in  the 
guitar-shop  had  said  of  Dahlia  his  wife :  — 

"  She  was  une  femme  blanche.  She  could  well 
afford  to  cry  over  a  little  girl  like  you." 

She  looked  across  her  child  into  Christina's 
confident  young  eyes,  and  thought,  with  exceed- 


214  Hedged  In. 

ing  bitterness,  how  far  beyond,  forever  beyond, 
her  reach  was  that  whiteness  which  could 
"afford"  to  put  both  shining  hands  into  the 
ditch  and  draw  them  forth  unstained. 

They  passed  some  one  in  turning  in  at  the 
gate.  Christina — her  head  lifted,  and  her  arm 
around  Eunice's  little  boy  —  paused  to  see  who 
it  was,  but  did  not  see,  and  hurried  in. 

"  Did  you  not  meet  the  doctor  ?  "  asked  her 
mother.  "  He  has  this  minute  left." 

It  happened  to  Eunice  on  that  same  evening 
to  be  called  on  some  slight  errand  late  to  Chris 
tina's  door.  Christina  was  up,  and  reading. 
Eunice  apologized  for  the  disturbance. 

"  I  believe  I  left  the  apron  here  that  the  child 
must  wear  to-morrow  "  ;  his  mother,  it  had  been 
noticed,  always  called  him,  somewhat  drear 
ily,  "the  child"  ;  shrank  from  naming  him  as 
long  as  she  could  ;  seldom,  if  ever,  made  use  of 
the  name  which  Mrs.  Purcell  finally  fastened 
upon  the  little  fellow, — a  name  which  meant 
nothing  to  anybody,  and  nothing  in  itself,  but  all 
the  better  for  that,  and  at  least  sensible  and 
pleasant  to  the  ear,  —  Kent. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Christina,  "  I  was  only  read- 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  215 

ing."  She  closed  her  book — her  little  English 
Testament  —  as  she  spoke,  and  with  unusual 
gentleness  held  out  her  arms  to  Eunice.  Eunice 
came  and  stood  beside  her  for  a  moment,  with 
the  little  apron  across  her  arm,  and  Christina 
noticed  that  she  was  very  thoughtful,  very  still. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"  Nothing." 

"Tell  me,  Eunice." 

"It  is  you,  then,  Christina." 

"  What  have  I  done  ? " 

"  Made  of  an  outcast  woman  —  in  the  eyes  of 
all  the  world  to-day  —  your  personal  friend,  I 
have  been  thinking  it  over  since  I  have  been  in 
my  room,  and  the  child  has  been  asleep,  —  he 
was  so  long  going  to  sleep  !  Perhaps  I  got  tired 
and  worried.  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,  Chris 
tina." 

For  Christina  was  uncommonly  silent,  —  sit 
ting  with  her  bright  head  dropped. 

"  What  have  you  been  '  thinking  over '  in  your 
room,  Eunice  ? " 

"  What  a  different  thing  it  would  have  been  if 
you  had  —  condescended,  you  know,  dear,  been 
forgiving,  kind,  all  that  a  noble,  charitable  lady 


216  Hedged  In. 

could  be  expected  to  be  to  me.     Then,  people 
would  all  understand,  admire  you." 

"Do  you  mean  that  they  will  not  understand, 
admire  me  now  ? "  Christina  smiled. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  "  —  Eunice 
hesitated  — "  what  I  mean.  It  seems  like  sup 
posing  that  a  breath  could  hurt  you.  And 
yet-" 

"  '  And  yet/  Eunice  ?  " 

"  After  all,"  said  Eunice,  slowly,  "  such  a  thing 
as  you  are  doing  was  never  known  of  a  lady 
pure  as  you  before." 

"Perhaps  so,  perhaps  not,  —  very  likely  not." 

"You  put  me  on  your  level;  you  made  me 
fine  and  good  as  you,  when  you  walked  with 
such  shining  eyes  home  from  school  with  me 
to-day  !  " 

"  I  hope  I  did." 

"  But  I  could  not  bear  it  that  a  false  word 
should  hit  you,"  said  Eunice,  with  earnest, 
troubled  lips  ;  "  and  how  can  people  understand 
that  you  may  take  me  in  this  way — any  other 
way  but  this,  —  into  your  confidence  and  love  ? 
How  can  they  see  me,  with  the  child  beside  me, 
all  my  life,  and  never  say  that  you  lost  in  fine- 


Une  Femme  Blanche.  217 

ness,  lost  in  —  something,  when    you    chose    a 
woman   such  as  I  to   be  your   intimate,  trusted 
friend?     And  I  wondered  —  do    not   blame  me, 
dear  — if  you    had  not  better  wait  for  heaven,   I   IX 
where  things  can  be  forgotten  ? " 

Christina  looked  up  ;  perhaps  she  had  been 
quicker  than  Eunice  to  think  of  this,  —  it  was  but 
natural  ;  her  eyelashes  were  wet,  though  her 
eyes  were  as  still  as  a  June  morning.  She  lifted 
her  little  Testament ;  it  opened  where  she  had 
closed  it,  and  she  held  it  for  a  moment,  with 
some  hesitation,  in  her  hand. 

"  I  was  reading  when  you  came  in  —  " 

Eunice  looked  over  her  shoulder  and  saw  what 
she  had  been  reading  ;  it  was  the  story  of  Mary 
of  Bethany. 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  said  ^Christina,  softly,  "  if  I 
ever  knew,  that  it  was  she  *  who  loved  much  and 
was  forgiven,  — the  woman  in  the  city  which  was 
a  sinner.  And  that  she  —  I  feel  as  if  I  must 
beg  your  pardon,  dear,  for  saying  it,  she  was  so 
wicked  !  —  she  became  what  you  call  '  the  inti 
mate,  trusted  friend '  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ ; 

*  It  should,  perhaps,  be  noted,  since  Christina  was  ignorant 
of  the  fact,  that  upon  this  point  commentators  differ. 


218  Hedged  In. 

perhaps,  excepting  John,  the  most  intimate, 
trusted  friend  he  had.  He  believed  in  her, 
loved  her,  and  all  the  world  knew  it !  What  do 
you  suppose  He  had  of  '  fineness '  to  '  lose '  ? 
Eunice,  I  am  not  afraid ! " 


A  Storm  of  Wind.  219 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

A     STORM     OF     WIND. 

DEAR  JANE:- 
Whatever  there  is  to  tell   you  this  time 
is   the   quiet   close    of   a   stormy   epoch    in   our 
family  history,  —  rich  in  wrecks,  like  all  stormy 
things. 

I  believe  it  is  a  month  to-day  since  the  poor 
unwelcome  baby,  for  whom  we  have  all  suffered, 
and  through  whom  we  have  all  learned  so  much, 
was  buried. 

He  had  been  with  us  just  a  year.  I  see,  now 
that  we  are  out  of  it,  better  than  I  did  while  we 
were  in  it,  what  a  trying  year  it  was  to  his 
mother,  and  to  us  for  his  mother's  sake.  So 
alarming  perils  grow  when  they  are  over! 

Eunice,  I  think,  was  in  considerable  peril,  not 
only  of  direct  social  degradation,  but  of  that 
exceeding  bitterness  of  spirit  which  only  social 
degradation  can  incite,  and  which,  in  a  life  so 


220  Hedged  In. 

young  as  Eunice's,  is  a  sadder  thing  than  death. 
How  she  stands  related  to  the  first  of  these 
dangers  is  a  problem  as  yet  in  process  of  solu 
tion,  perhaps.  The  second  has  passed  her  by, 
and  left  her  the  serenity  of  a  statue  in  inclement 
weather. 

As  you  know,  she  remained,  by  my  decided 
advice,  at  her  desk  in  school.  Christina  and  I 
between  us  managed  to  keep  the  boy  at  home, 
and  happy,  while  she  was  gone. 

With  a  courage  which  nothing  but  conscious 
whiteness  could  have  given  her,  the  poor  girl 
braved  for  weeks  the  unhinged  tongues  of  every 
gossip,  every  anxious  parent,  every  responsible 
trustee  in  Gower.  The  retention  of  her  position 
raised  a  furious  storm.  Twice  she  wrote  and 
signed  her  resignation  ;  twice  and  again  Mr. 
Hobbs  (the  queer  little  grocer,  —  do  you  remem 
ber  him  ?)  —  Mr.  Hobbs  and  the  doctor  between 
them  over-urged,  over-argued,  overawed,  —  I  do 
not  know  which  or  how  ;  but  the  resignation 
never  went  in  ;  the  committee  never  asked  for  it. 

The  school  thinned,  dwindled.  Gower  grum 
bled,  growled.  The  poor  little  teacher  paled  and 
trembled,  but  tied  up  her  white  face  in  her 


A  Storm  of  Wind.  221 

veil  every  day,  and  marched  off  bravely  to  her 
post. 

So  far  she  has  held  it  like  a  sentinel.  At  the 
time  of  her  child's  death  her  desks  were  full 
again,  and  the  public  knew  it,  and  the  public 
went  about  its  business,  and  let  her  alone.  It 
is  some  time  since  I  have  heard  anything  about 
the  safety  of  the  public  morals,  or  the  future  of 
the  infant  mind.  Alarmed  parents  have  been 
thrown  off  their  guard,  trustees  and  committees 
have  grown  serene. 

This  change  has  been  brought  about  on  simple 
business  grounds. 

"  If  you  dorit  give  it  up,"  said  Mr.  Hobbs, 
"  Gower  will  stand  upon  its  own  feet,  and  look 
out  for  its  p's  and  q's.  It  's  for  Gower's  advan 
tage  to  keep  you  in  that  grammar  school,  and 
Gower  will  find  it  out." 

Apparently  Gower  found  out,  in  Gower's  own 
convenient  season,  that,  in  spite  of  itself,  the  gram 
mar-school  prospered.  This  seemed  to  be  owing 
primarily  to  Miss  Trent's  personal  influence  over 
the  children  ;  and  I  must  say  this,  now  and 
here,  for  Eunice,  —  her  influence  over  children  is 
a  remarkable  one.  This  has  surprised  me,  be- 


222  Hedged  In. 

cause  she  has  exhibited  so  little  instinctive  mater 
nal  fondness  for  her  own  child.  I  have  some 
times  fancied  that  it  was  the  conscious  want  of 
this  which  has  made  her  so  studiously  tender  of 
all  children. 

It  is  certain  that  her  scholars  have  evinced, 
both  before  and  since  her  acknowledgment  of 
little  Kent,  an  affection  for  her,  and  belief  in 
her,  unusual  both  in  amount  and  kind.  She  has 
a  rare  moulding  power,  as  nearly  as  I  can  judge, 
and  a  patience  in  finish,  not  common  to  the  trade  ; 
has  contrived  to  make  herself  interested  in  the 
children  from  their  souls  to  their  stockings ;  has 
become  their  confidante,  friend  ;  and  — 

"  Has  raised  the  standard  of  scholarship,"  Dr. 
Burtis  adds,  "forty  per  cent  within  a  year." 

I  have  been  told  one  other  thing  of  Eunice, 
which  has  not  in  the  least  surprised  me,  but  has 
given  me  a  genuine  unsanctified  sense  of  individ 
ual  triumph  over  public  opinion.  Certain  true- 
hearted,  clear-eyed  mothers  —  relenting  and  re 
specting  —  are  whispering  to  each  other  that 
the  outcast  girl,  whom  they  virtuously  passed 
by  upon  the  other  side,  has  been  diligent  in 
effecting  that  most  intricate  and  delicate  of 


A  Storm  of  Wind.  223 

educational  "objects,"  —  the  purity  of  a  school 
of  little  children. 

"Beb  has  gone  back, — yes,"  said  little  Beb 
White's  mother  yesterday  to  me.  "  And  I 
begged  her  teacher's  pardon  when  I  sent  her, 
—  yes,  I  did.  Folks  may  say  what  folks  like  ! 
/  Ve  heard  that  as  makes  me  ready  —  and  not 
ashamed  of  it  neither  —  to  trust  my  child  to 
Eunice  Trent  quick  as  I  would  to  her  own 
mother,  God  bless  her  ! " 

Excitement  and  care  together  have  worn  up 
on  Eunice  through  the  year.  Her  blind  head 
aches  have  increased,  and  she  has  a  curious 
pulse,  which  puzzles  the  doctor.  Her  child's 
sickness  found  her  weak,  and  left  her  weaker. 
Just  now  she  is  unfit  for  work,  and  at  home. 

The  relations  between  Eunice  and  her  child 
were  singular ;  death  has  softened  quite  as  much 
as  it  has  saddened  them. 

In  every  maternal  duty  she  was  faithful  to 
punctiliousness.  Whether  she  blacked  his  shoes 
or  heard  his  prayers,  she  did  it  with  an  eye 
single  to  little  Kent.  She  taught  him,  caressed 
him,  watched  him.  She  took  extreme  pains  that 
he  should  never  be  permitted  to  feel  that  she  was 


224  Hedged  In. 

ashamed  of  him  ;  sometimes,  I  fancied,  took  him 
to  walk  when  the  streets  were  crowded  for  no 
other  reason. 

"  The  boy  shall  be  as  happy  as  he  can,"  she 
sadly  said. 

The  boy  was,  I  think,  happy  enough  ;  grew 
just  as  fond  of  her  as  if  he  had  been  better  loved, 
poor  little  fellow  !  fondled  her,  trotted  after  her, 
cried  for  her.  Eunice  never  repelled,  never  neg 
lected  him.  Yet  sometimes  when  he  climbed  up 
into  her  lap  and  laid  his  little  face  against  her 
cheek,  "  to  love  mamma,"  it  made  my  heart  ache 
to  see  how  patient,  smiling,  and  still  "  mamma  " 
would  sit ;  to  notice  the  absence  of  all  the  little 
silly,  motherly  ways  and  words  that  happy  moth 
ers  kiss  into  a  baby's  opening  life. 

Sometimes,  when  the  child  was  asleep,  she  used 
to  sit  and  watch  him  with  a  certain  brooding, 
unloving,  yet  very  anxious  look,  inexpressibly 
mournful  to  me. 

"  Eunice,"  I  said  one  day,  "  can't  we  manage 
to  love  the  little  fellow?" 

"  He  shall  not  know  it  if  I  cannot,"  she  an 
swered,  huskily.  I  did  not  know  which  to  pity 
more,  the  child  or  mother. 


A   Storm  of  Wind.  225 

He  never  did  know  it,  poor  baby  !  To  the 
last  he  clung  to  her,  and  cried  for  her ;  to  the  last 
she  watched  and  caressed  him.  When  scarlet 
fever  of  the  worst  type  (it  is  supposed  that 
Eunice  brought  the  infection  from  little  Beb 
White's  sister,  with  whom  she  had  watched) 
struck  the  child  down,  his  mother  was  all  that 
any  mother  could  have  been. 

"  Should  have  thought  she  was  fond  of  him,  if 
I  did  n't  know  better,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  disease  was  of  the  short,  sure,  malignant 
kind.  Dr.  Burtis  told  us  from  the  first  that  the 
child  would  die,  though  he  treated  him  with 
great  skill  and  kindness.  Eunice,  I  think,  never 
believed  this  ;  expected  him  to  live  with  that 
dogged  persistency  which  may  indicate  either 
hope  or  fear  with  equal,  aptness.  Once  I  found 
her  by  his  bedside  upon  her  knees. 

"  For  what  are  you  praying,  Eunice  ? "  She 
raised  a  perplexed  face. 

"  I  do  not  want  him  to  die  !  I  do  not  want 
him  to  die !  I  was  praying  —  I  believe  I  was 
praying  that  I  might  be  able  to  pray  for  my 
child's  life." 

Did  she  ?     Who  can  say  ?     It  would  be  pleas- 


226  Hedged  In. 

ant  to  think  that  the  child  took  with  him  the 
sweetness  of  one  genuine,  hearty,  mother's  long 
ing  for  his  stay.  I  noticed,  that,  as  he  grew 
sicker,  Eunice's  tenderness  deepened  in  manifold 
little  ways  ;  grew  into  a  thing  so  like  love  that 
the  counterfeit,  if  counterfeit  it  were,  rang  like 
coin. 

The  change  —  that  awful  thing  which  old 
nurses  call  "the  gray  change"  —  struck  the  child 
at  midnight  of  the  2ist.  Eunice,  exhausted  with 
watching,  had  fallen  asleep  upon  my  lounge. 
I  was  reluctant  to  wake  her,  as  she  had  not 
slept  for  days  and  nights  before  ;  but  the  doctor 
was  imperative  about  it,  and  Christina,  at  his 
direction,  called  and  brought  her  in. 

It  was  a  bitter  night,  with  a  storm  of  wind  that 
had  raged  since  morning,  —  one  of  those  dry, 
savage  gales,  which,  as  Mrs.  Myrtle  would  say, 
are  "so  depressing," — just  such  a  gale  as  that  we 
had  —  perhaps  you  remember — on  the  night 
when  Christina's  father  died.  There  has  never 
been  a  death  in  my  house  which  did  not  occur 
in  a  storm  of  wind. 

I  noticed  that  Eunice  noticed  it,  as  she  came 
in  and  looked  at  the  child's  face.  She  shivered 


A  Storm  of  Wind.  227 

a  little,  looking  toward  the  window,  drew  her 
shawl  about  her,  pushed  us  all .  away,  and  man 
aged  to  lift  the  little  boy  upon  her  arm. 

Upon  her  arm,  without  word,  or  sign,  or  strug 
gle,  he  died.  She  had  pulled  her  loose  hair  down, 
or  it  had  fallen,  so  that  it  hid  both  the  child's  face 
and  her  own. 

For  some  moments  after  the  doctor  withdrew 
his  finger  from  the  pulse,  and  signed  to  us  that  it 
was  all  over,  she  sat  motionless,  hiding  both 
faces  in  her  hair. 

It  may  have  come,  as  Nixy  once  said,  "all 
along  of  the  grayness  of  the  room,"  or  because 
of  the  peculiar  effect  which  that  great  white 
cross,  near  which  I  sat,  always  has  upon  me ; 
but  all  that  I  could  think,  as  we  sat,  the  doctor, 
Christina,  and  I,  waiting  for  Eunice  to  move, 
was  of  the  tear-washed  Feet  which  once  were 
wiped  with  a  woman's  hair.  A  Presence  stronger 
than  death  stepped  in,  or  so  I  thought,  between 
Eunice  and  the  little  changed  face  upon  her  arm. 
And  I  could  see  that  she  wept  upon  it,  kissed  it, 
before  she  laid  her  dead  child  down  before  it,  and 
rose,  —  for  her  faith  had  saved  her,  —  and  went 
her  way  in  peace. 


228  Hedged  In. 

She  placed  the  little  body  with  great  gentle 
ness  upon  the  pillow,  and,  with  a  mournful  waste 
of  tenderness,  covered  it  carefully,  and  tucked  it 
up,  as  if  the  boy  had  been  going  to  sleep  for  the 
night. 

She  looked  round  upon  us  all,  —  a  little  sur 
prised  and  frightened,  it  seemed,  —  went  to  the 
window  and  listened  for  a  moment  to  the  long, 
heavy,  regular  waves  of  wind  that  beat  upon  the 
house.  It  sounded  as  if  the  tide  of  a  mighty  sea 
were  up  about  us  ;  in  the  distance,  where  the 
thick  of  the  village  broke  it,  there  was  a  noise 
like  surf. 

"  It  seems  a  dreadful  night  —  for  a  baby  —  to 
go  out  in,"  said  Eunice,  under  her  breath. 

She  said  nothing  more.  We  led  her  away  to 
bed,  and  she  slept  till  morning. 

The  wind,  with  daylight,  went  down  ;  the 
mighty  tides  ebbed  away  ;  the  surf  changed  in 
to  a  little  sweet  sobbing,  like  that  of  a  child  who 
cried  for  joy. 

In  the  calm  of  the  sunrise  I  went  into  little 
Kent's  room  to  see  if  all  were  well. 

In  some  way,  when  we  did  not  know  it,  his 
mother  had  got  in  before  me,  and  sat  still  and 


A  Storm  of  Wind.  229 

straight  in  a  chair  by  the  bed,  looking  the  dead 
child  full  in  the  face. 

There  was  frost  upon  the  windows,  and  a  pink 
light  in  the  room,  and  the  great  cross,  as  white 
as  one,  relieved  against  the  other,  shone  out  be 
hind  her.  I  noticed  that,  by  some  chance,  one 
of  Kent's  little  dresses  had  been  hung  upon  its 
arm,  and  that  a  tiny  tin  horse  on  wheels  stood 
upon  the  base  of  the  solemn  thing. 

"  He  looks  like  me,"  said  Eunice,  suddenly, 
without  turning  her  head.  "  Do  you  not  think 
so  ? " 

The  little  still  face,  fine  and  fair  with  the  fine 
ness  and  fairness  of  death,  had  indeed  caught 
something,  especially  about  its  dubious  mouth, 
of  Eunice's  delicate  beauty. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  went  on,  without  waiting  for 
my  answer,  "  if  he  will  look  like  me  in  heaven. 
I  hope  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him  ! " 

She  got  up  and  moved  restlessly  about  the 
room,  went  to  the  frosty  window  that  the  pink 
light  was  melting,  and  remarked  how  the  wind 
had  fallen.  Coming  back,  she  noticed  the  dress 
and  little  horse,  and  where  they  were.  She 
stooped  to  remove  them  —  her  hand  trembled 


230  Hedged  In. 

—  she  put  them  back,  and  came  and  sat  down 
upon  the  bed,  with  quivering  lips. 

"  My  poor  little  baby  !     I  might  have  loved  it 

—  might  have  —  " 

There  I  heard  her  sob,  and  there  I  left  her. 

Jane  Briggs  !  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
to  cry  about ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  one 
should  not  cry  if  one  wants  to,  I  suppose  ? 
though  it  is  reason  sufficient  for  not  spoiling 
several  reams  of  one's  best  gilt-edged  note-paper. 

Therefore  I  am 

Yours, 

MARGARET  P. 

P.  S.  —  Did  I  tell  you  that  we  buried  the  child 
in  the  old  ugly  churchyard  —  at  least,  I  had 
thought  it  rather  ugly,  till  Eunice  told  me  how 
much  she  liked  it,  and  how  she  wished  that  little 
Kent  should  lie  there  —  over  on  the  purple  hill 
behind  the  house  ?  M. 

I  find  laid  away  with  this  letter,  a  little,  sweet, 
familiar  song  of  Kingsley's.  Shall  I  copy  it  as 
it  comes  ?  It  falls  on  the  close  of  my  chap 
ter  like  a  chant  at  the  end  of  a  service  of 
prayers. 


A  Storm  of  Wind.  231 

"  Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool, 
By  laughing  shallow  and  dreaming  pool ; 
Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear, 
By  shining  shingle  and  foaming  weir  ; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ouzel  sings, 
And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  church-bell  rings, 
Undefiled,  for  the  undefiled  ; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child  ! 

"  Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul, 
By  the  smoky  town  in  its  marshy  cowl ; 
Foul  and  dank,  foul  and  dank, 
By  wharf  and  sewer  and  slimy  bank  ; 
Darker  and  darker  the  farther  I  go, 
Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow  ; 
Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled  ? 
Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  mother  and  child  ! 

"  Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free, 
The  floodgates  are  open  away  to  the  sea ; 
Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong, 
Cleansing  my  streams  as  I  hurry  along, 
To  the  golden  sands  and  the  leaping  bar, 
And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar, 
As  I  lose  myself  in  the  infinite  main, 
Like  a  soul  that  has  sinned  and  is  pardoned  again  ; 
Undefiled  for  the  undefiled, 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child  ! " 


232  Hedged  In. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

A     PRAYER-MEETING. 

/CHRISTINA  was  going  to  a  prayer-meeting. 

^-^  This  may  sound  very  much  like  a  Sunday- 
school  book,  —  I  spare  the  "  cricket's  eye  "  the 
trouble  of  making  the  observation  for  me,  —  but 
as  long  as  it  is  a  fact  that  Christina  was  going  to 
a  prayer-meeting,  I  am  compelled,  for  the  sake 
of  history,  at  any  cost,  to  make  the  statement.  I 
should  add,  perhaps,  that  it  was  a  Sabbath  night, 
which  may  be  considered  as  excusable  of  the  cir 
cumstance  that  Christina  did  go  to  the  prayer- 
meeting.  When  I  further  record  that  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell  did  not  go  to  the  prayer-meeting  (being  on 
duty  at  the  minister's,  who  had  six  babies,  chick 
en-pox,  a  sick  wife,  and  the  prayer-meeting  on 
his  hands),  and  that  Dr.  Dyke  Burtis  did,  I  have 
made  three  statements  of  no  interest  to  anybody 
unless  I  except  Christina  and  the  doctor,  —  and 
that  is  no  business  of  ours,  because  they  were 


A  Prayer-Meeting.  233 

going  to  a  prayer-meeting ;  but  I  have,  I  trust, 
proved  as  clearly  and  briefly  as  possible,  to  the 
most  heretical  mind,  that,  and  why,  Eunice,  who 
was  too  ill  to  go  to  a  prayer-meeting  on  the 
evening  in  question,  was  alone  in  the  house. 

"  Not  afraid  ?  "  said  Christina,  stooping  to 
kiss  her,  as  the  doctor's  ring  summoned  her 
half  reluctantly  away.  "You  look  so  lonely! 
What  is  the  book,  —  Herbert  ?  It  must  be  as 
melancholy  as  —  as  going  nutting,  to  read  Her 
bert  of  a  winter's  evening,  all  alone  in  the 
house ! " 

Eunice  smiled,  but  when  Christina  had  gone, 
and  her  laugh,  tinkling  as  if  a  Swiss  bell-ringer 
were  touching  wedding  music  on  it,  had  died 
away  from  hearing,  her  smile  faded  quite.  Per 
haps  the  reading  was  as  "melancholy"  as  one 
of  Herbert's  own  "  sowre-sweete  dayes."  She 
turned  the  leaf,  half  listening  to  Christina,  and 
when  silence  dropped  slowly  reread  the  poem. 

"  When  blessed  Marie  wip'd  her  Saviour's  feet, 
(Whose  precepts  she  had  trampled  on  before) 
And  wore  them  for  a  Jewell  on  her  head, 
Shewing  his  steps  should  be  the  street, 
Wherein  she  thenceforth  evermore 
With  pensive  humblenesse  would  live  and  tread  : 


234  Hedged  In. 

"  She  being  stain'd  herself,  why  did  she  strive 
To  make  him  clean  who  could  not  be  defil'd  ? 
Why  kept  she  not  her  tears  for  her  own  faults, 
And  not  his  feet  ?    Though  we  could  dive 
In  tears  like  seas,  our  sinnes  are  pil'd 
Deeper  than  they,  in  words,  and  works,  and  thoughts. 

"  Deare  soul,  she  knew  who  did  vouchsafe  and  deigne 
To  bear  her  filth  :  and  that  her  sinnes  did  dash 
E'en  God  himself:  wherefore  she  was  not  loth 

As  she  had  brought  wherewith  to  stain, 

So  to  bring  in  wherewith  to  wash  : 
And  yet  in  washing  one  she  washed  both." 

Eunice  dropped  from  the  Bach-like  music  of 

the   words   into   a  strain   of    solemn    thinking ; 

somewhat    of   her  past,    more    of   the    coming 
years 

"  Wherein  she  thenceforth  evermore 
With  pensive  humblenesse  would  live  and  tread." 

She  was  beginning  of  late  to  feel  that  she  had 
coming  years  of  her  own  to  live  for,  to  be  at 
peace  in,  to  take  real  solid  human  comfort  in, 
-the  common  comfort-of  common  people  ;  per 
haps  just  such  content  in  living  for  life's  own 
sake,  such  consciousness  of  right  to  live  and 
worth  in  living,  as  if  she  were  but  one  of  "  other 
people,"  after  all.  As  if  indeed  the  pretty  poetry 


F  TH« 


were  but  prose  :  "  We  always  may  be  what  we 
might  have  been." 

Since  the  death  of  her  child,  great  quiet,  both 
from  within  and  from  without,  had  fallen  upon 
her.  In  place  of  the  anxious,  uneasy  moods  of 
the  half-hearted,  disgraced  young  mother,  a 
solemn  thankfulness  that  the  little  thing  was 
beyond  their  reach,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
world  which  would  deal  by  the  child  as  it  had 
dealt  by  her,  filled  and  hushed  her.  The  living 
child  had  dishonored  her,  —  not  so  much  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  which  was  the  smaller  matter, 
as  constantly  and  inevitably  in  her  own.  The 
little  grave  upon  the  purple  hill,  she  felt,  could 
not  disgrace  her.  Her  sense  of  bitterness  and 
shame  when  (poor  mother  !)  she  said  "  my  child" 
was  settling  into  a  kind  of  pleased  expectancy 
because  that  holy  thing,  a  dead  baby,  was 
hers  to  find,  in  some  certain,  happy  time,  "  all 
over  again,"  she  said  to  Christina.  In  fact,  in  a 
healthy,  honest  way,  with  no  attempted  senti 
mental  grief  and  regretting,  Eunice  was  glad 
that  her  little  boy  had  died.  She  never  as 
sumed  that  the  matter  was  otherwise  with  her  ; 
never  affected  a  sorrow  which  she  could  not  feel, 


236  Hedged  In. 

had  never  felt.  It  was  well  with  the  child.  It 
was  well  with  her.  The  Lord  had  remembered 
them  both.  Why  make  a  feint  of  mourning  ? 

This  evident  state  of  mind  in  Eunice  caused 
some  disapprobation  in  Gower.  At  least,  Gower 
would  have  had  her  wear  crape  and  cry  at  the 
funeral  ;  though  Gower  owned  that  she  had  been 
seen  on  still  evenings  climbing  the  purple  hill  to 
little  Kent's  grave,  "  as  bold  as  you  please,  and 
never  cared  for  nobody  that  saw  her  go." 

Yet,  on  the  whole,  the  world  —  typified  in 
Gower  —  was  beginning  to  be  not  all  unkind 
to  Eunice  Trent.  Gower  was  no  worse  than 
other  places.  "  This  is  not  so  much  a  wicked 
as  a  stupid  world."  Christianity  was  not,  thirty 
years  ago  at  least,  "  a  failure."  And  this  woman 
had  lived  so  patient,  brave,  and  pure  a  life  !  For 
all  her  past  she  had  been  so  sorry  !  For  a  right 
to  her  future  she  had  appealed  with  such  per 
sistent  trustfulness  in  the  force  of  the  Lord 
Christ's  example !  Ever  since  disgrace  had 
taken  her  prisoner,  she  had  held  up  such  plead 
ing  hands  and  such  unspotted  hands  —  to  be  "let 
out "  !  Honest  men  and  women  were  beginning 
honestly  to  say,  This  is  a  good  woman,  after 


A  Prayer-Meeting.  237 

all.  There  may  be  a  place  for  her  —  even  for 
her  —  among  us.  It  is  a  very  "unusual  case." 
She  has  had  "  peculiar  advantages."  She  has  a 
claim  to  "  uncommon  charity."  She  has  evinced 
a  "most  penitent  spirit."  Have  you  not  observed 
her  great  "  humility  "  ?  Shall  we  take  her  in  ? 

"  I  am  much  surprised,"  wrote  Mrs.  Zerviah 
Myrtle  to  friends  in  Gower,  "  to  hear  of  the  posi 
tion  which  little  Nixy  Trent  is  acquiring  among 
you.  I  was  always  much  interested  in  the  girl, 
and  I  am  rejoiced  to  learn  that  any  one  with 
superior  opportunities  to  mine  has  exerted  a  mis 
sionary  work  upon  the  poor  young  thing.  Her 
case  was  so  sad  and  depressing  !  You  may  be 
sure  that  your  charitable  spirit  will  be  wisely 
expended  and  well  rewarded." 

Eunice  was  thinking  of  this,  wondering  whether 
any  other  than  the  "  charitable "  amenities  of 
society  were  likely  ever  to  be  offered  to  her,  or 
were  indeed  due  to  her,  —  wondering  idly,  for 
she  did  not  much  care, — when  some  slight 
noise, —  the  pracking  of  plaster,  the  creaking  of 
a  door,  —  happening  to  strike  her  ear  and  her 
musing,  recalled  her  suddenly  to  the  idea,  that 
the  house  was  rather  "lonely — with  Herbert  — 


238  Hedged  In. 

of  a  winter's  evening,"  and  that  she  was  ready 
for  company,  and  Christina. 

It  was  not,  however,  at  all  time  for  Christina, 
and  Mrs.  Purcell  never  got  home  early  from  the 
minister's.  ("I  wish  the  minister  had  more  salary 
or  fewer  babies ;  mother  will  kill  herself  playing 
his  nursery-maid,"  Christina  used  to  say.)  So 
Eunice,  with  the  common  longing  of  lonely  peo 
ple  for  light,  —  how  many  life-long  sorrows  have 
been  cured  in  ten  minutes  by  kerosene! — bright 
ened  Mrs.  Purcell's  astral-lamp  ;  by  which  process 
she  covered  her  finger  with  lard-oil,  and  so  forgot 
whether  she  was  lonely  or  not,  and  rose  to  rake 
the  coals. 

As  she  did  this,  an  unusual  noise  fell  upon  her 
ear. 

She  laid  down  her  poker,  thinking  that  per 
haps  the  servants,  early  home,  were  locked  out 
at  the  back  door,  and  stood,  a  lovely,  listening 
figure,  full  in  the  centre  of  the  rich  uncurtained 
room ;  Margaret,  for  the  sake  of  people  "  out 
in  the  cold,"  seldom  draws  her  sjiades  in  the 
evening. 

The  sound  was  immediately  repeated ;  it  was 
just  without  the  front  window,  and  resembled  the 


A  Prayer-Meeting.  239 

noise  which  a  step  upon  the  crusted  snow  would 
make,  though  it  was  an  irregular,  uncertain  noise, 
like  that  of  a  step  in  a  place  where  a  step  had  no 
business  to  be. 

"Christina!" 

Eunice  called  distinctly,  but  received  no  an 
swer.  Thinking  still  that  Christina,  perhaps  in  a 
freakish  mood,  was  trying  to  look  in  or  climb  in 
through  the  low  window,  or  that  Bridget  was 
drunk,  and  had  mistaken  the  window  for  the 
back  door,  she  crossed  the  room  with  composure 
to  open  it. 

She  lacked  yet  several  feet  of  the  window 
when  she  stopped. 

Pressed  close  against  the  glass,  and  looking  in, 
and  looking  at  her,  was  the  face  of  a  man. 


240  Hedged  In. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

AND     WHAT     CAME     OF     IT. 

T  T  was  a  rough  face. 

-*-  Eunice  saw  as  much  as  that,  though  the 
man  stood  in  the  dark,  and  she  in  the  lighted 
room.  She  saw  more  than  that,  when  she  had 
walked  boldly  and  close  to  the  window  to  get  her 
hand  upon  the  lock. 

She  had  about  the  courage  of  an  average 
sensible  woman,  —  nothing  more,  perhaps.  The 
average  sensible  objection  to  an  evening  visit 
from  a  burglar  when  one  is  alone  in  the  house 
was  strong  within  her,  when  she  saw  how  rough 
a  face  it  was  with  which  she  had  to  deal. 

When  she  had  reached  the  window,  when  her 
hand  was  upon  the  lock,  when  she  would  have 
drawn  the  shade,  when  she  saw  what  face  it  was 
with  which  she  had  to  deal,  a  terror  quite  unlike 
the  average  sensible  fear  struck  her  through,  and 
struck  her  still. 


And  what  came  of  it.  241 

She  stood  so  still  that  her  ugly  visitor,  taking 
courage,  perhaps,  drew  close  to  her,  with  only 
the  glass  (Eunice  thought,  confusedly,  how  thin 
and  shining  and  firm  the  glass  was)  between 
them,  and  rapped  upon  it  with  his  knuckles,  — 
the  knuckles  were  very  grimy. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  fellow,  through  the  glass. 

"  Well,"  said  Eunice,  in  a  dull,  thick  voice. 

"  Shall  I  come  in,  or  '11  you  come  out  ?  " 

Eunice  sprang  the  lock  sharply. 

"  Hush  !  I  will  come  out."  She  pointed,  as 
she  spoke,  to  the  piazza  door.  The  man  —  or 
boy,  for  he  seemed  to  be  scarcely  more  than  a 
boy  —  nodded,  and  moved  around  the  house, 
crunching  the  snow  heavily  underfoot.  It  seemed 
to  Eunice's  excited  fancy  that  the  neighbors  must 
hear  him  for  half  a  mile  away. 

Eunice,  instead  of  locking  the  piazza  door, 
opened  it,  shut  it  after  her,  crossed  the  piazza, 
and  stepped  out  upon  the  snow.  The  moon  was 
up,  and  all  the  night  was  white.  The  young 
fellow,  as  he  came  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
was  sharply  relieved,  both  in  face  and  figure, 
against  the  broad  blue  shield  of  snow. 

He  was  ragged  and  dirty.     A  slouched,  soiled 


242  Hedged  In. 

hat  half  covered  very  ill-kempt  red  hair,  and 
nearly  shaded  his  face  from  view.  He  jerked 
up  his  hat,  however,  partly  in  salutation,  partly 
because  it  obscured  his  sight,  as  he  came  up  to 
the  spot  where  Eunice  stood.  His  coat  was  out 
at  the  elbows  ;  his  boots  were  out  at  the  toes  ; 
his  hands,  as  I  said,  were  grimy  ;  an  odor  of  ill 
tobacco  pervaded  the  air  about  him. 

Eunice,  standing  with  the  full  moonlight  on 
her  bare  head,  her  fine  lips  parted,  her  eyes  wide 
open,  her  slender,  sick  hands  (Eunice  always 
showed  physical  exhaustion  first  in  her  hands) 
folded  and  trembling,  —  Eunice  saw,  as  the  thief 
in  Paradise  might  have  seen  himself  dead  upon 
his  cross,  —  the  father  of  her  child. 

Oddly  enough,  the  only  thing  of  which  she 
thought,  for  the  moment,  was  a  theological  dis 
cussion  which  the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Purcell  had 
yesterday  concerning  the  finer  distinctions  be 
tween  retribution  and  discipline. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her,  I  think,  that  she  had 
not  deserve'd  this ;  she  was  a  little  puzzled  as  to 
the  metaphysical  grounds  on  which  the  Lord  had 
decreed  it. 

The  young  man,  who  had  been  leaning  against 


And  what  came  of  it.  243 

one  of  the  piazza  pillars,  waiting  apparently  for 
her  to  speak,  and  apparently  somewhat  ill  at  ease, 
broke  the  silence  by  saying,  shortly,  — 

"  Well,  Nix  !  " 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me,  Dick  ?  "  Eunice 
spoke  with  considerable  self-command  in  her 
sweet,  even,  cultivated  voice.  Dick  listened 
sharply  to  it,  and  something  in  it  made  him  dully 
uncomfortable. 

"  Ain't  over-glad  to  see  me,  be  ye,  now  ? 
Did  n't  mean  no  offence  !  Thought  mebbe  ye 
would." 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  repeated  Eunice,  in 
the  same  manner  as  before. 

"Don't  know  as  I  want  nothin',"  said  Dick, 
in  a  disappointed,  embarrassed  tone.  "  I  thought 
mebbe  as  I  had  n't  done  very  well  by  ye,  and, 
seein'  as  I  'm  just  about  ready  to  live  a  decent 
life  and  settle  down,  I  'd  hunt  ye  up  and  marry 
ye  ;  but,  by  gracious,  Nix  \ "  —  Dick  looked  across 
the  white  light  between  them  with  a  puzzled 
face,  and  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of 
the  wonderful  southern  skies,  where  the  moon 
hung  quite  by  itself,  —  "I'd  as  soon  think  of 
marryin'  that !  " 


244  Hedged  In. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Eunice,  mechanically,  "just 
as  soon." 

"  What  with  the  white,  and  the  shine  of  it,  and 
the  —  the  distance  —  miles  of  it,  you  know," 
mused  Dick,  "  and  the  feeling  that  there  warn't 
never  a  ladder  in  the  world  made  high  enough 
to  reach  the  thing.  Never  should  ha'  known  ye 
in  the  world,  Nix,  if 't  had  n't  ben  for  hearin'  of 
your  name  about  town,  and  where  ye  was,  and 
then  for  havin'  the  chance  to  make  sure  o't  at  my 
leisure  through  the  winder-panes,  —  never  should  ! 
I  Ve  ben  on  the  lookout  for  ye,  too,  this  long 
while  back.  Come  across  old  Lize  once,  with  a 
blue  panoraymy  and  Tim  in  tow,  —  tried  to  get 
it  out  of  her  whether  she  'd  stumbled  'cross  ye 
in  her  travels ;  but  the  old  woman  shut  me  up 
quicker  'n  gunpowder.  I  took  the  notion,  at  the 
time  o't,  as  she  knew.  Where  's  the  child,  Nix  ? " 

The  abruptness  of  the  question  startled  Eu 
nice  ;  she  was  shivering  from  the  cold,  which,  in 
her  unprotected  state,  was  extreme  ;  and  she  was 
faint  from  the  effort  to  speak  gently  to  the  fellow. 

Dick  was  as  good  as  other  Thicket  Street 
boys;  meant  her  no  harm,  —  at  least  if  he  were 
not  angered.  Both  her  sense  of  chanty  and  of 


And  what  came  of  it.  245 

policy  induced  her  to  treat  him  with  composure 
and  kindness. 

So,  feeling  very  weak  and  very  much  confused, 
she  staggered  a  little  against  the  side  of  the 
house.  Dick  instinctively  threw  out  his  hands  to 
keep  her  from  falling.  She  thrust  them  away 
with  a  gesture  of  inexpressible  loathing.  She 
could  not  help  it. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dick,  sullenly  step 
ping  back.  "  I  see  I  'm  not  fit  to  stand  talking 
here  to  a  lady  like  you  're  grown  to  be.  I  'd  bet 
ter  go,  Nix." 

"Yes,  you  had  better  go,"  said  Eunice,  recov 
ering  herself,  —  "  you  had  better  go,  unless  you 
wish  to  do  me  a  very  great  harm,  which  I  do 
not  think  you  do,  Dick." 

"  Meant  no  offence  !  No.  Told  you  so  ! " 
interrupted  Dick.  "  Meant  no  offence  noway  ; 
Mebbe  I  'd  better  ha'  let  you  alon'  altogether ; 
thought  I  was  doin'  the  fair  thing  by  ye,  that 's 
all.  I  ain't  the  good-for-nothing  I  was  in  old 
times  ;  I  thought  I  'd  like  to  kind  o'  get  you  off 
my  conscience,  and  spruce  up  and  live  like  better 
folks,  —  besides,  I  liked  you,  Nix,  first-rate  ! " 

"  But  't  ain't  no  odds,"   continued  Dick,  after 


246  Hedged  In. 

a  pause,  —  "  't  ain't  no  odds  about  the  child 
neither." 

"  I  understand,  I  understand,"  Eunice  an 
swered,  with  increasing  gentleness.  "  I  know 
you  don't  mean  to  be  a  bad  boy,  Dick.  I  know 
you  didn't  mean  to  give  me  the  —  pain  —  you 
have  given  me  to-night.  But  it  can't  be  helped. 
God  led  me  one  way,  you  another.  We  are 
different,  Dick,  —  don't  you  see  ?  —  different  now, 
forever." 

She  spoke  in  a  simple,  motherly  way,  as  if 
she  were  explaining  something  to  a  child.  The 
young  fellow  received  what  she  said  with  a  per 
plexed  and  patient  face. 

"  You  're  right  enough  on  that.  Would  n't 
have  come  nigh  ye  if  I  'd  known  it  afore  as  clear 
as  I  know  it  now.  I  thought  a  lady  was  a  born- 
thing  like,  afore.  But,  for  aught  I  see,  you  're  as 
fine  as  any  on  'em.  I  don't  see  through  it,"  — 
Dick  pulled  his  hat  down  over  a  pair  of  as  dull, 
good-natured,  uncomfortable  eyes  as  ever  at 
tacked  an  old  relentless  problem, —  "I  don't  see 
through  it  though  !  Here  's  you  and  here  's  me  ; 
growed  up  in  Thicket  Street  like  't  other  folks  as 
grows  up  in  Thicket  Street ;  all  of  a  piece  both 


And  what  came  of  it.  247 

on  us  ;  if  either  on  us  stood  a  chance  agin 
t'  other,  it  was  me  by  all  odds  (which  hung  about 
me  while  I  was  huntin'  of  ye  up).  Now,  here 's 
me,  and  here's  you!" — Dick  glanced  across 
the  shining  breach,  which  all  the  lighted  night 
seemed  helping  to  widen  between  the  two  fig 
ures,  typical  as  if  Thorwaldsen  had  made  a 
basso-relievo  of  them  against  the  shining  sky,  — 
"  here 's  you,  and  here 's  me  !  Good  luck  got 
you,  —  I  won't  say  but  you  needed  good  luck, 
Nix,  —  and  here  ye  be,  and  here,  for  aught  I  ken 
see,  ye  '11  continer  to  be,  and  no  ketchin'  up  with 
you  in  this  world  or  t'  other.  Now  if  a  fellar  'd 
got  his  heart  sot  on  ketchin'  up,  —  which  I  won't 
deny  I  ain't  so  partikkelar  'bout,  —  and  there, 
agin,  why  ain't  I  ?  "  continued  poor  Dick,  drowned 
in  his  own  metaphysics.  "  When  folks  are  sot  on 
ketchin'  up,  and  other  folks  are  sot  they  won't 
be  ketched  up  with,  and  the  God  as  made  'em 
looks  on  and  —  and,  as  you  might  say,  bets  on 
the  innings  for  the  2.40  creetur  —  Well !  I  don't 
mean  no  disrespect  to  him  in  especial,"  broke  off 
Dick ;  "  but  I  can't  say  as  I  see  it.  Howsom- 
ever,  that 's  no  concern  o'  yourn,  and  it  's  plain 
to  see  it  would  do  ye  no  kindness  to  be  seen 


248  Hedged  In. 

talkin'  to  me  by  neighbors  and  such.  I  '11  be 
more  keerful  how  I  put  myself  in  your  way 
another  time.  'T  ain't  likely  as  ye  '11  ever  be  so 
put  about  agin.  But  I  meant  to  do  the  fair  thing, 
if  't  was  late  in  the  day,"  repeated  Dick,  as  he 
turned  to  go. 

Eunice,  alive  in  the  ears  as  a  panther,  —  listen 
ing  for  neighbors,  for  passers,  for  Christina,  for 
all  the  world  to  come  and  see  her  standing  where 
and  how  she  stood  ;  sick  at  heart,  as  one  may 
suppose  that  only  the  pure  who  have  struggled 
against  tide  for  purity  can  ever  be  in  tainted  air, 
—  found  herself,  after  and  above  all,  growing 
very  sorry  for  Dick. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  trembling  very  much, 
"  you  would  like  to  know  where  —  the  little 
boy  —  is  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  you  choose  to  tell,"  said  Dick. 

"  Everybody  knows,"  replied  Eunice,  simply. 
"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  .and  see  it  — 
over  there."  She  pointed  to  the  corner  of  the 
purple  hill,  where  the  light  lay  very  solemnly. 

"  Dead  —  hey  ?  " 

Dick  stood,  slouched  and  still,  with  his  eyes 
turned  toward  the  old  churchyard  and  the  climb 
ing  moon. 


And  what  came  of  it.  249 

"  Thankee,"  said  he,  after  a  pause ;  "  mebbe 
I  '11  go  over  and  make  the  little  fellow  a  call. 
Don't  s'pose  I  'm  fit  for  't,  but  I  might  be  wuss, 
an'  I  guess  no  harm  '11  come  on  't.  Good  by, 
Nix ;  and  I  '11  not  grudge  ye  the  luck,  mind,  in 
sight  o'  that" 

Dick  shuffled  away,  through  the  limpid  light, 
up  the  purple  hill,  among  the  solemn  snows 
where  the  baby  lay,  "  ketching  up  "  at  last  with 
the  little  grave,  where  Eunice  thought  she  saw 
him,  after  a  pause,  kneel  down  and  remove  his 
slouched  hat  from  his  head. 

She  stood  quietly  enough  till  this,  in  the  full 
light  against  the  pillar ;  then  all  the  world  reeled. 

She  managed  to  crawl  into  the  house.  When 
Christina  came  home  from  the  prayer-meeting, 
she  found  her  on  the  parlor  floor  nearly  sense 
less  with  what  Dr.  Burtis  pronounced  a  clear 
case  of  neuralgia  at  the  heart. 

When  they  had  left  her  —  feigning  sleep  — 
alone  in  her  gray  room  with  her  white  cross  that 
night,  she  got  up,  locked  her  door,  and  walked 
her  narrow  floor,  with  only  intervals  of  respite, 
till  morning,  being,  she  afterwards  said,  "  too 
ii  * 


250  Hedged  In. 

tired  to  lie  still."  Perhaps  there  never  was  a 
creature  more  thoroughly  "  tired  "  in  brain  and 
heart  and  body  than  Eunice  Trent  that  night. 
The  mere  solitude  of  such  an  experience  as  hers 
must,  it  has  often  seemed  to  me,  be  the  weariest 
thing  in  the  world.  Nothing  exhausts  like  lone 
liness,  and  nothing  equals  the  loneliness  of  sin, 
since  nothing  but  the  loneliness  of  sin  is  beyond 
the  comprehending  sympathies  of  Him  who  was 
"without  sin  among"  us.  In  the  bitterest  of 
human  pains,  —  remorse,  —  we  must  bear,  as  we 
incurred,  alone.  He  indeed  has  agreed  to  "re 
member  sins  and  iniquities  no  more  forever "  ; 
but  shall  we — can  we  —  forget?  Perhaps  there 
is  in  guilt  a  secret  nature  like  the  secret  of 
perpetual  motion  :  grasp  the  conditions,  the  re 
sult  grasps  you. 

The  thing  which  had  happened  to  Eunice  was 
as  natural  as  the  multiplication  -  table  ;  indeed, 
she  could  but  feel  that  Dick  had  let  her  off  very 
easily.  She  wearied  her  excited  fancy  through 
the  night  by  conceiving  of  advantages  which  he 
might  have  taken,  of  which  she  had  read  or 
heard  as  taken  in  cases  similar  to  her  own, 
which  would  have  turned  all  her  patiently  ac- 


And  what  came  of  it.  251 

quired  peace  a  bitter  thing  till  death.  Whether 
of  the  Lord's  mercy,  or  whether  of  the  boy's 
good  heart,  she  had  escaped  great  perils  with 
little  hurt. 

Suppose  the  neighbors  had  seen  her  standing 
there  ;  suppose  the  fellow  had  dogged  her  steps, 
wrung  money  from  her,  used  her  name  lightly 
about  the  town,  done  any  one  of  a  dozen  things 
which  had  been  done  in  such  circumstances 
many  times  before  ?  / 

She  felt  confident,  quite,  of  his  sincerity,  when 
he  agreed  that  she  should  not  "  be  so  put  about 
agin."  Thicket  Street  Nix  had  understood  the 
boy  well  enough,  —  a  good-hearted,  careless  fel 
low, —  and  Miss  Trent  felt  little,  if  any,  concern 
lest  she  were  misinterpreting  him  now.  In  this, 
time  proved  her  to  be  correct.  From  the  mo 
ment  when  she  turned  and  left  him  kneeling  in 
the  moonlight  on  the  purple  hill,  Eunice  never 
saw  her  child's  father  again.  It  took,  I  think,  a 
little  of  the  loathsomeness  of  the  sight  of  him 
away,  that  she  had  seen  him  last  just  so  and 
there,  —  changed  her  sense  of  individual  suffer 
ing  into  a  kind  of  solemn  charity  for  poor  Dick ; 
which,  as  time  softened  her  memory  of  the  whole 


Hedged  In. 

affair,  she  felt  that  she  could  "well  afford"  (as 
M.  Jacques  would  say)  to  bestow  on  the  miserable 
kneeling  figure  which  was  never  to  "  ketch  up." 

Yet  she  passed,  that  night,  hours  of  the  kind 
which  make  old  men  and  women  out  of  young 
ones  fast.  The  events  of  the  evening  appeared, 
she  said  afterwards  to  Margaret,  "  to  have  taken 
her  up  by  the  roots."  She  seems  to  have  under 
gone  a  stirring,  settling  process,  like  fair  water 
into  wjhich  a  filthy  thing  is  thrown.  Life  in 
Thicket  Street,  sharp  and  gaudy  and  long  as 
Lize's  "panoraymy,"  unfurled  all  night  before 
her ;  people,  scenes,  incidents,  which  she  had  for 
years  forgotten,  started  up  from  the  gray  corners 
of  her  room,  and  stalked  about  her.  Like  the 
angel  in  Miss  Ingelow's  Story  of  Doom,  she  de 
scended  into  hell  with  shining  feet  that  floated, 
but  did  not  touch  the  ground,  —  but  it  was  hell. 

She  did  not  grow  to  feel  herself  to  be  aggrieved 
in  this  experience.  The  Lord  could  not  help  it. 
It  was  mathematics,  not  affliction. 

But  I  remember  once  to  have  heard  her  say,  long 
after,  —  some  discussion;  I  have  forgotten  what,  be 
tween  Margaret  and  myself  arousing  the  words, — 

"  Save  a  lost  man  his  memory ;  he  will  need 
no  '  eternal  punishment '  besides." 


The  Little  Doctor.  253 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE    LITTLE    DOCTOR. 

EUNICE  !  " 
"  Christina ! " 

"I've  done  it!" 

"  What  ? " 

"I  —  don't  —  quite  know." 

"What  is  it  like,  —  ink  on  your  wrappers,  or 
grief  to  your  squash-pies  ? " 
•  "It  is  more  like — getting  engaged,  I  suppose," 
said  Christina,  thoughtfully,  closing  Eunice's  door, 
which  she  had  held  half  open,  and  sitting  down 
upon  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Eunice  laid  down 
the  pile  of  compositions  which  she  was  correct 
ing,  and  repeated  —  in  such  a  grave,  peculiar 
way,  so  unlike  the  way  in  which  almost  any 
woman  of  her  years  would  have  said  it  —  the 
word,  — 

"  Engaged —  to  be  married,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Engaged  to  be  married,  I  suppose  I  mean." 


254  Hedged  In. 

"  I  never  should  have  thought  of  such  a 
thing  !  "  exclaimed  Eunice,  and  she  never  would. 

"  Neither  should  I,"  pursued  Christina,  shaking 
her  head  very  much  as  the  doctor  used  to  shake 
his  over  a  discouraging  patient ;  "  I  never  should 
have  thought  of  it  in  the  world  !  I  am  sure  I 
don't  see  why  he  did.  But  then  he  did,  and  it 
can't  be  helped,  as  I  see." 

"Whom  are  you  going  to  marry?"  asked  Eu 
nice,  after  a  pause. 

"  Dyke  Burtis,  I  suppose.  Whom  else  should 
I  marry  ? " 

"Very  true.     There  is  nobody  else." 

Eunice  made  this  remark  with  perfect  gravity, 
and  Christina  received  it  as  gravely,  except  that 
her  eyes  twinkled  a  little,  that  Eunice  did  not 
notice  how  grave  they  both  were  about  it.  How 
ever  unusual  a  remark  for  one  young  woman  to 
make  to  another,  it  was,  nevertheless,  an  emi 
nently  sensible  one. 

Christina  was  about  to  do  that  extraordinary 
and  humiliating  thing  —  which  only  the  lovely 
young  women  who  do  not  get  into  the  novels 
ever  do  —  called  "taking  up  with  your  first 
offer."  And  Christina,  sitting  there,  all  pink  and 


The  Little  Doctor.  255 

white  except  for  the  shine  of  her  hair  and  the 
stars  in  her  eyes,  was  a  very  lovely  young  woman 
indeed  !  She  would  have  twinkled  like  her  own 
eyes,  shone  like  her  own  hair,  in  any  society 
where  chance  had  dropped  her  ;  was  one  of  just 
those  winsome,  heartsome  creatures  who  would 
set  a  man  dreaming  as  sweetly  and  surely  as 
scarlet  poppies,  —  a  girl  that  your  young  fellows 
would  frame  by  their  firesides  forever  (whether 
she  knew  it  or  not),  as  young  fellows  nowadays 
frame  Miss  Lunt's  lovely  lithographed  "  Future  " 
to  expend  their  spare  sentiment  upon.  That 
picture,  by  the  way,  is  a  better  portrait  of 
Christina,  as  she  was  in  the  days  of  which  I 
am  writing,  than  any  which  the  daguerreotyp- 
ing  art  of  twenty-five  years  ago  could  secure 
of  her. 

And  yet,  until  Dr.  Dyke  Burtis  that  day,  down 
in  the  parlor,  had  asked  her,  gravely  and  abrupt 
ly,  as  was  the  doctor's  way,  to  marry  him,  Chris 
tina  had  never  had  a  "  love-afFair."  As  Eunice 
said,  there  "  was  nobody  else  "  in  Gower  to  have 
a  love-affair  with. 

"You  love  the  doctor?"  asked  Eunice,  slowly. 

"  As  nearly   as    I  can   make   out,   I   love   the 


256  Hedged  In. 

doctor.  He  says  I  do.  It  seemed  a  great  pity 
to  contradict  him.  He  knows  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  do.  Now,  I  never  should  have 
known  that  in  the  world,  if  I  had  n't  been  told 
of  it ! " 

"  Yoir  love  him  enough  to  go  away  with  him  — 
into  his  home  ? "  continued  Eunice. 

"  Considering  mother  has  you,  and  he  lives 
across  the  street — on  the  whole — yes,  I  think 
I  should  be  a  happier  woman  in  Dr.  Dyke  Bur- 
tis's  home  than  anywhere  outside  of  it.  If  he  did 
not  live  in  Gower  and  across  the  street,  I  think 
I  might  —  if  it  could  not  possibly  be  helped  — 
go  as  far  as  Atlas  with  him,"  said  Christina,  with 
great  gravity. 

"  This  seems  very  strange  ! "  mused  Eunice. 
It  did  seem  to  her  strange  beyond  speaking. 
She  looked  into  Christina's  straightforward, 
proud  young  eyes  —  they  had  grown  very  proud 
all  in  an  hour  !  —  till  her  own  dimmed.  The 
sacredness  of  that  white  thing,  a  happy  woman's 
happy  love,  confused  her  like  a  new  language. 
She  did  not  know  any  words  to  use  in  speaking 
of  it.  It  was  something  foreign,  far,  beyond  seas 
of  things,  from  her  life.  She  did  not  understand 


The  Little  Doctor.  257 

how  to  put  out  a  finger's  weight  and  touch  the 
distant,  glimmering  thing:  — 

"  A  shadowy  isle  of  Eden, 
Framed  in  purple  spheres  of  sea." 

So,  not  knowing  anything  else  to  say,  she  said, 
after  a  long  silence,  only, — 

"Kiss  me,  dear." 

She  felt  'glad  —  a  little  more  glad,  it  seemed, 
than  she  had  ever  felt  before — that  Christina 
was  willing  to  kiss  her. 

She  held  the  girl's  face  down  and  touched  her 
ripe  lips  tremulously,  —  kissed  her  eyes,  her  hair, 
her  forehead. 

Christina  winked. 

"  Are  you  anointing  Aaron,  Eunice  ? "  she 
said. 

Eunice  felt  that  she  would  like  to  say  some 
thing  to  the  doctor,  but  knew  neither  what  nor 
how.  The  next  time  that  she  saw  him,  she 
somewhat  hesitatingly,  and  in  silence,  held  out 
her  hand.  She  did  .not  feel  sure  that  he  would 
care  to  be  "  congratulated  "  by  a  Thicket  Street 
charity  patient,  and  that  they  both  remembered 
Thicket  Street  just  then  was  evident  in  the 
meeting  eyes  of  both.  Dyke  Burtis  esteemed 

Q 


258  Hedged  In. 

her,  trusted  her,  but  Dyke  Burtis  was  a  man,  and 
one  can  never  count  on  a  man  when  it  comes  to 
the  matter  of  "  chesing  hem  a  wif."  It  would 
not  be  unnatural  if  he  should  feel  far  more  keenly 
than  Christina  that  there  was  something  incon 
gruous,  grating,  in  ever  so  slight  an  assumption 
on  the  part  of  a  woman  with  such  a  history  as 
Eunice  Trent's  that  she  —  like  any  other  woman 
—  had  right  and  fitness  to  step  into  the  holy 
place  where  happiness  like  his  abideth.  She 
might  take  the  shoes  from  off  her  feet,  but  that 
would  rather  reveal  than  conceal  how  scarred 
and  wayworn  the  sad  feet  were. 

So  at  least  she  thought,  and  so  she  felt  greatly 
comforted  when  the  little  doctor,  stopping  only 
to  stroke  his  streaked  beard,  —  which  he  would 
have  stopped  to  do  if  he  were  dying,  —  grasped 
her  hand  like  a  man  who  had  got  something  now 
which  he  needed^  and  had  missed,  —  looked  her 
for  a  moment  full  in  the  eyes  with  that  peculiar 
deprecating  reverence  which  newly  happy  people 
(of  a  certain  kind)  are  apt  to  carry  in  the  presence 
of  a  sad  face,  —  coughed,  and  left  her  suddenly. 

Eunice  was  comforted  and  surprised ;  so  little 
idea  had  she  at  that  time,  or  indeed  at  any  other 


The  Little  Doctor.  259 

time,  what  a  singularly  consecrated,  set-apart, 
sacred  place  she  was  taking  in  Margaret  Purcell's 
household.  She  slipped,  in  her  later  years,  into 
its  purest  joys,  griefs,  hopes,  fears,  plans,  and  pur 
poses  as  quietly  as  the  little  nun  in  Miss  Proc 
ter's  legend,  for  whom  Blessed  Mary  "kept  the 
place"  till  she  came  back;  none  knowing,  in 
deed,  that  she  had  ever  gone  away  —  to  carry 
flowers  every  morning  to  the  Virgin  Mother  at 
her  altar. 


Hedged  In. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE    "METHODY    TUNE.'* 

OOME  lives  are  like  pond-lilies,  —  you  think 
^  that  you  have  gathered  all  the  gold  and 
snow  of  them,  and  when  you  go  to  look  for  your 
treasure,  behold  a  little  plain  brown  folded  bud  ! 

The  story  of  Eunice  Trent  seems  to  close 
away  from  my  touch  in  very  much  this  shy,  un- 
ornamented  fashion  ;  veined  and  delicate,  pearled 
and  tinted,  indeed,  like  the  sheath  of  the  sleep 
ing  lily,  but,  like  that,  a  suggestion  of  color,  a 
hint  of  wealth. 

They  were  not  the  miracles,  but  the  maxims, 
of  Christianity  which  saved  her;  and  things 
befell  her  not  miraculously,  but  in  an  ordinary,* 
quiet  manner,  no  more  of  interest  to  the  ro 
mance-searcher  than  the  Golden  Rule.  Her 
life  was  in  most  respects  as  uneventful  as  wash 
ing-day,  especially  in  her  latter  years.  It  took 
you,  and  you  it,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  It 


The  "Methody  Tune?  261 

never  startled  you  or  met  you  at  an  unexpected 
corner.  She  "  lived  along,"  as  we  say,  taught 
her  school,  took  care  of  Margaret,  made  Chris 
tina's  wedding  clothes,  had  a  class  in  Sunday 
school,  watched,  with  sick  people,  had  what  is 
called  a  "  kind  way  about  her,"  commanded  the 
confidence,  enforced  the  respect,  due  to  a  com 
mon  virtuous  woman's  common  virtuous  life. 
When  I  have  said  this,  I  seem  to  have  said  a 
very  simple  thing,  and  Eunice  Trent  was  capable 
of  very  complex  things  ;  had  certain  heroic, 
stony  elements  in  her  which  make  women  fa 
mous  in  pestilence,  war,  famine,  which,  had 
chance  so  befallen  her,  would  have  given  to  her 
history  a  tragic  or  triumphant  chapter,  in  which 
he  who  runneth  might  have  read  her  possibilities. 
But  to  those  of  us  who  knew  and  loved  her,  in 
the  very  simplicity  of  her  patient  and  peculiar 
life  the  peculiarly  patient  victory  of  it  lay.  We 
who  lifted  the  waxen  eyelids  and  touched  the 
golden  crown  of  the  dreaming  flower  knew  them 
sweeter  that  they  were  shielded,  and  rarer  for 
their  drooping. 

To  have  lived  out   her  disgrace  would   have 
been  a  far  more  rapid  process,  if  a  kind  of  stake- 


262  Hedged  In. 

and-cross  experience  had  given  her  opportunities 
of  social  martyrdom  ;  if  that  capacity  of  self- 
abnegation  (marked  in  Eunice)  which  shames 
down  shame  itself  in  almost  any  history,  but  to 
which  the  consequences  of  a  woman's  sin  yield 
last  and  hardest,  had  had  outlets  of  noticeable, 
memorable  action. 

This,  I  think,  she  felt  keenly  at  the  time  of  a 
certain  visit  which  she  paid,  of  her  own  fancy, 
and  alone,  to  Thicket  Street. 

This  was  immediately  after  she  had,  in  accord 
ance  with  the  doctor's  orders  (which  her  increas 
ing  attacks  of  spasmodic  pain  at  the  heart  ren 
dered  imperative),  finally  and  reluctantly  left  her 
desk  at  school ;  at  which  the  Board  had  protest 
ed,  and  the  children  cried,  to  Margaret's  com 
plete  content. 

So,  perhaps,  she  felt  a  more  marked  than  usual 
vacancy  of  life  and  purpose  on  the  shimmering 
sunny  morning  when  she  stepped  into  a  sooty 
yellow  omnibus  in  South  Atlas,  striking  as  near 
as  she  might  by  wheels  for  her  old  home. 

"  Thicket  Street  ?  H— m— m,"  the  driver 
peered  at  her  through  his  little  loop-hole  with 
curious  eyes.  "  Hain't  made  a  mistake,  have 


The  "Methody  Tune?  263 

ye  ?  Thicket  Street.  H— m— m.  Yes.  Well. 
Don't  go  very  nigh  Thicket  Street  —  our  line 
don't.  Let  you  off  at  the  nighest  p'int,  since 
it 's  a  Land  of  Liberty,  —  yes  ;  but  it 's  not  what 
you  may  call  an  over-pleasant  place  for  a  lady. 
Sure  there  's  no  mistake  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Eunice,  who  —  whether  from 
the  stentorian  tones  of  the  driver,  or  from  his 
fierce  black  whiskers,  grown  inches  since  she  saw 
them,  which  choked  up  the  loop-hole  and  hung 
through  like  a  feather  duster  when  he  tried  to 
talk  to  her  —  had  recognized  No.  23. 

23  did  not,  however,  ^  recognize  in  Eunice,  in 
her  careful  black,  the  poor  little  tramp  who  had 
once  stolen  a  night's  lodging  in  his  omnibus. 
"The  best  stuff  aboard,"  he  thought,  making 
a  driver's  shrewd  inventory  of  his  passengers 
through  the  loop-hole. 

Eunice  had  been  but  a  few  moments  one  of 
23's  passengers  when  23  pulled  up  at  a  street 
corner  for  a  little  dumpy  woman,  with  a  little 
dumpy  girl  beside  her,  and  a  very  little,  very 
dumpy  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  Bundle  in  there,  and  be  quick  about  it ! " 
said  23. 


264  Hedged  In. 

The  little  woman,  who  did  not  seem  as  much 
offended  as  might  have  been  expected  of  her  at 
this  somewhat  free-and-easy  manner  of  being  ad 
dressed  by  your  omnibus-driver,  bundled  in,  and 
bundled  the  baby  in,  and  bundled  in  the  little 
girl,  and  when  they  had  all  bundled  into  a  seat 
together  Eunice  saw  that  it  was  Marthy  Ann. 

"  Got  the  young  uns  shod  ? "  roared  23,  through 
the  loop-hole. 

"  Good  gracious  me,  Dan  !  I  'm  not  deef,  and 
there  's  no  need  of  tellin'  the  passengers  all  as  I 
went  into  town  for,"  said  Marthy,  blushing  as 
prettily  as  ever  a  little  woman  of  her  size  blushed 
in  the  world.  "  Though  I  did  buy  the  baby  a 
pair  of  red  ankle-ties,  and,  thinks  says  I,  I  '11  give 
'em  to  her  to  carry  and  keep  her  still,  and  what 
should  she  do  but  try  to  swallow  'em,  and  one  of 
'em  sticking  down  her  throat  like  to  strangle  her, 
and  when  I  pulled  it  out,  there  it  is,  all  turned 
violet  in  a  streak  across  the  toes,  —  the  mis 
chief!" 

"  Give  her  t'  other,"  suggested  23.  "  Make  her 
suck  'em  both  alike." 

"  I  thought  of  that,"  said  Marthy  ;  "  a  violet 
foxing  would  n't  be  bad." 


77*?  "Methody 

Marthy  was  so  grave  and  pretty  and  happy 
about  this  bit  of  chatter,  and  she  seemed,  as  she 
used  to  seem,  so  fond  of  her  new  baby,  and  23  so 
fond  of  her,  that  Eunice  felt  her  heart  warmed 
through  by  Marthy  almost  as  much  as  had  poor 
Nixy,  listening  to  her  lullaby  on  the  kitchen 
lounge.  She  drew  her  veil  and  watched  the 
children  behind  it ;  the  little  girl  sat  close  beside 
her,  and  attracted  by  the  whiteness  of  her  hand, 
which  lay,  half  gloved,  upon  her  lap,  she  put  up 
her  little  finger  and  felt  it  over  shyly.  Eunice 
raised  the  child's  hand  gently  to  her  lips  (won 
dering  jf  such  a  happy  little  matron  as  Marthy 
would  be  quite  willing  that  she  should  kiss  her 
child),  and  slipped  a  tiny  silver  piece  (as  large  as 
the  hand  would  hold)  into  it,  as  she  laid  it  back. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered,  "can  you  tell  your 
mother  something  for  me,  if  I  ask  you  to  ? " 

The  child  nodded,  —  a  dumpy  little  nod,  but 
emphatic. 

"  And  not  tell  her  —  mind !  —  till  I  have  got 
out  of  the  omnibus  ? " 

The  little  girl  shook  her  head  shrewdly. 

"  I  want  you  then  to  tell  her,  —  and  you 
can  have  the  silver,  —  I  want  you  to  tell  your 


266  Hedged  In. 

mother,  God  bless  her,  and  God  bless  the  baby, 
and  God  bless  you  !  " 

"  How  funny  !     What  for  ?  " 

"  Because  your  mother  is  a  good  woman  —  a 
good  woman ;  and  once,  long  ago,  she  was  kind 
to  a  poor  little  girl  to  whom  nobody  else  was 
kind — but  just  your  father  there;  and  so  I 
want  you  to  tell  her,  for  it  is  easy  for  you  to 
remember  :  God  bless  them,  and  God  bless  the 
baby,  and  God  bless  you ! " 

"  Might  as  well  bless  'em  in  a  heap,  it  would  n't 
take  so  long,"  said  the  little  miss,  with  an  eco 
nomical  air  ;  "  but  I  '11  'member." 

Lest  the  young  lady  should  not  have  "  'mem- 
bered,"  and  if,  by  any  of  those  chance  winds 
such  as  carry  seeds  to  islands,  23  should  ever  see 
this  -page,  he  is  hereby  requested  to  deliver  to 
Marthy  the  message  left  by  the  "best  stuff 
aboard "  on  the  sunny,  shimmering  morning 
when  the  baby  added  violet  foxings  to  her  scar 
let  shoes. 

When  23  had  dropped  her,  according  to  prom 
ise,  at  the  "nighest  p'int"  to  Thicket  Street,  Eu 
nice  veiled  herself  with  care,  feeling  rather  too 
weak  and  weary  to  meet  the  risk  (if  risk  there 


The  "Mel/wdy   Tune:'  267 

were)  of  random  recognition  in  Thicket  Street, 
than  ashamed  that  Thicket  Street  should  recog 
nize  her. 

Her  heart  was  full  as  she  strolled  up  and  down 
the  miserable  place.  Its  foul  ditches,  its  dwarfs 
and  cripples,  its  shrieking  children,  the  shamed 
and  drunken  tip  of  the  roofs,  the  concert-saloons, 
Jeb's,  No.  19,  the  codfish  on  the  wharves,  the 
nauseated  sunlight,  the  very  chickweed  in  the 
chill  triangular  shadows,  came  into  her  vision 
dully,  with  at  first  no  more  than  the  familiar 
horror  of  a  favorite  nightmare.  She  very  seldom 
afterwards  made  reference  to  the  hour  which  she 
spent  in  the  place,  but  I  have  understood  that 
she  said,  shuddering,  once  to  Margaret:  — 

"  It  looked  just  as  I  have  seen  it  every  night 
of  my  life  since  I  came  out  of  it,  and  just  as  I 
expect  to  see  it  every  night  till  I  die." 

It  was  not  until  Jeb,  casting  accounts  on  .his 
nails  in  his  doorway,  with  a  legion  of  ghostly 
handbills  fluttering  about  his  ponderous  figure, 
touched  his  cap  to  her,  and  a  ragged  little  Peters 
boy,  some  relative  of  poor  Ann's  (she  knew  him 
by  the  feeble,  flexile  family  mouth),  begged  cop 
pers  of  her,  that  she  roused  herself  from  her  som- 


268  Hedged  In. 

nambtilistic  walk  to  what  had  been  from  the  first 
her  secret  object  in  coming  to  Thicket  Street,  — 
the  discovery  of  the  whereabouts  and  belongings 
of  old  Monsieur  Jacques. 

But  when  she  walked,  paying  little  attention 
to  her  surroundings,  dreamily  through  the  guitar- 
shop  door,  she  walked  over,  not  Monsieur  Jacques, 
but  a  mop  with  a  little  old  Scotch  woman  at  the 
end  of  it,  who  asked  her  shortly  —  I  refer  to  the 
woman,  not  the  mop  —  what  was  her  business, 
if  she  pleased  ?  and  instructed  her  to  gang  awa' 
fra  out  the  soapsuds  an  she  had  a  care  for  sich 
dainty-shod  feet  as  them  she  bro't  wi*  her,  delay- 
in'  folks  of  a  busy  morn. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Eunice,  stepping 
back;  "but  I  came  to  find  —  can  you  tell  me 
where  I  can  find  an  old  guitar-maker  who  — 
there  are  guitars  about :  perhaps  he  is  here,  ill  ? 
I  should  like,  if  I  may,  to  go  and  see  him." 

"  Gang  awa'/'  said  the  Scotch  woman,  scrub 
bing  the  floor  violently,  and  without  looking  up,  — 
"  gang  awa'  and  welcoom,  gin  ye  '11  tell  him  the 
mess  o'  clearin'  up  he  's  made  me.  Look  a'  that 
for  a  job  o'  sweepin'  —  an'  that  —  an'  the  dust 
all  alang  o'  the  instremeents,  for  a  decent  body  to 


The  "Methody   Tune"  269 

be  clearin'  up  for  a  deid  tenant,  as  caed  for 
water-gruel  thro'  a  ten-day  fever  into  the  bar 
gain  !  " 

"  Dead  !  "  echoed  Eunice. 

"  Deid,"  repeated  the  old  woman,  nodding. 
"  Deid  just  this  day  week,  at  nine  o'  the  nicht  ; 
an'  mony  's  the  time  I  've  warned  him  o'  the  con 
sequences,  to  a  landlady  o'  partikkelarity^  o'  re- 
fusin'  to  dust  the  instremeents  in  case  o'  sickness, 
pereel,  or  sudden  death,  —  fra'  all  o'  which,  good 
Lor',  deliver  us  !  " 

"  Dead  —  a  week  ago  —  poor  old  Jacques  ! 
He  used  to  be  careful  enough  to  dust  his  guitars," 
said  Eunice,  sitting  down  upon  a  water-pail  in 
the  doorway  (the  only  seat  offering),  which  the 
Scotch  woman  had  turned  bottom  upwards  to 
dry,  and  taking  a  sad  survey  of  the  little  guitar- 
shop  ;  old  Jacques's  red  wig  stared  emptily  at 
her  from  a  high  shelf,  —  dusty,  like  the  "  instre 
meents  "  ;  and  a  pair  of  torn  pink  kid  gloves,  like 
wise  very  dusty,  lay  upon  a  little  cricket  which 
Nixy  used  to  fancy  drawing  to  the  old  man's  feet 
when  he  sang  of  1'amour  or  TEmpereur,  especially 
when  he  talked  of  "  Rue  Richelieu  "  or  Dahlia. 
Beyond  these  and  one  old  favorite  fiddle,  cracked 


2/o  Hedged  In. 

now  and  kicked  under  the  counter,  nothing  in 
the  little  shop  looked  familiar  to  her ;  and  the 
confusion  of  the  landlady's  pails  and  brooms  gave 
a  cold,  unnatural  air  to  the  room,  like  a  dead  face 
dressed  by  hired  hands.  Eunice  could  not  help 
thinking  how  gently  Dahlia  would  have  swept 
and  dusted  the  dreary  place,  and  how  the 
"  femme  blanche "  would  have  cried  over  the 
pink  kids,  and  the  red  wig,  and  the  cracked 
fiddle ;  what  a  lonesome  dying  the  poor  old  man 
must  have  made  of  it,  —  "  ten  day  of  water-gruel " 
and  the  Scotch  woman  ! 

"  He  fell  into  drearsome  ways,"  said  the  land 
lady,  scrubbing  up  her  words  into  a  great  many 
syllables,  "  afore  he  died,  —  moped  and  pined  like  ; 
played  nae  music  and  sang  nae  sangs,  an'  allooed 
the  dust  to  set  and  choke  him,  as  ye  see.  It  's 
my  opinion,"  added  the  Scotch  woman,  solemnly, 
"  that  he  choked  to  death  —  of  dust  —that  's  it ; 
choked.  Your  doctors  may  talk  o'  fevers  to  me 
an  they  list ;  I  Ve  seen  folks  choked  o'  dust  afore 
now,  in  judgment  on  their  slovensome  ways  an' 
manners.  /  Ve  seen  it !  I  've  got  a  bill  o'  the 
instremeents  to  pay  me  for  my  pains  an'  trouble 
alang  o'  the  auld  mon's  undertakin'  to  be  sick 


The  "Methody   Timer  271 

an'  dee  upo'  my  ban's  ;  an'  sae  ye  ken  they  maun 
be  cleaned  up,  worse  luck  to  him  ! " 

"Were  you  alone  with  him  when  he  died?" 
asked  Eunice  ;  "  and  di<4  he  suffer  long  ?  I  will 
make  it  worth  your  while  to  stop  and  tell  me  all 
you  can  remember." 

"  He  suffered  lang  enow,"  said  the  woman,  lift 
ing  her  eyes  —  and  Eunice  thought  what  hard 
eyes  they  were  to  be  the  last  that  old  Jacques 
should  see  —  for  the  first  time,  and  taking  a 
keen  measure  of  her  visitor's  dress  and  manner. 
Having  done  this,  she  stopped  scrubbing,  wiped 
her  hands,  sat  down  on  one  of  her  brooms,  and 
proceeded,  —  "  suffered  lang  enow,  an'  bad  enow, 
—  pains  in  the  head,  legs,  heart,  pains  here  an' 
there  an'  allwheres  ;  so  he  lies  and  shuts  his  eyes, 
an'  once  he  caes  for  a  bit  Bible  or  Testament  or 
prayer-buik  like,  I  couldna  quite  mak'  it  out ; 
but  there  wasna  one  in  the  shop,  sic  a  heathen 
was  he  ;  an'  when  I  offered  out  o'  charitee  to 
cover  the  kirk  prayers  o'  my  ain  an'  lend  it  till 
him  for  a  space,  if  he  wouldna  hurt  it,  he  shook 
his  head  decided,  an'  wouldna  hear  o't.  As 
fast  as  he  grew  worse  he  took  to  singin' ;  an'  at 
the  last,  —  at  nine  o'  the  clock  this  day  nicht,  in 


272  Hedged  In. 

a  fearsome,  still  kind  o'  nicht,  a'  munelicht  an' 
stars  (it  's  alway  my  luck  to  sit  up  wi'  a  corpse 
by  munelicht,  which  is  a  baH  sign  —  a  bad 
sign  ! ),  —  in  a  nicht  a'  mime  an'  stars,  an'  still, 
he  sang  as  you  mought  hear  him  across  the  street, 
an'  sang  as  he  war  bent  on  singin'  o'  himsel'  to 
sleep  like,  —  of  which  the  noise  was  a  great  in 
convenience  ;  an'  sae  singin'  an'  playin'  in  the 
air  wi'  his  fingers  on  guitars  as  nae  mon  but 
himsel'  could  see,  he  dropped  off,  plump !  wi'  the 
stroke  o'  nine." 

"  Could  you  understand  what  he  sang  ?  What 
were  the  words  ?  "  asked  Eunice. 

"Some  o'  his  heathenish  French  jabber,"  an 
swered  the  landlady,  coldly.  "  I  couldna  mak' 
head  nae  tail  o't,  only  o'  the  words  as  he  dropped 
off  wi',  —  an'  them,  I  tak'  it,  was  Methody,  — 
'Depths,'  I  made  it,  'Depths  o'  mercy!  Depths 
o'  mercy  ! '  o'er  an'  o'er,  till  it  war  like  to  ring  in 
a  body's  head  fore'er,  —  wi'  his  eyes  quite  open, 
an'  them  fingers  playin'  an'  feelin'  o'e.r  the 
guitars  as  nae  mon  else  could  see  nor  feel. 
'  Depths  o'  mercy ! '  that  war  it ;  then  follerin' 
after  for  a  bit,  — 

'  Can  there  be  ?  —  can  there  be  ? 
Depths  of  mercy  !  — still  —  ' 


The  "Methody   Tuner  273 

an'  there,  as  I  was  a  tellin'  you,  he  dropped 
off  at  the  stroke  o'  nine  precise,  an'  I  puts  ther 
prayer-buik  (when  I  'd  covered  it)  aneath  his 
chin,  and  I  watches  the  corpse  by  munelicht, 
despite  the  luck,  for  there  was  naebody  else  to 
keep  things  decent,  an'  a'  the  nicht,  though  ye 
mayna  believe  it,  /  know  as  them  guitars  as 
nae  livin'  eye  could  see  went  soundin'  an'  singin' 
through  the  air,  an'  the  tune  they  sang  war  the 
Methody  tune  ;  an'  doon  in  the  shop  —  I  'd  take 
my  oath  o't  —  doon^  in  the  shop,  at  twelve  o' 
the  nicht,  I  steppin'  doon  to  see  that  all  war  well 
locked  up,  the  guitars  upo'  the  counter  sounded 
there  before  my  eyes,  an'  nae  mortal  hand  to 
touch  'em,  —  an'  they  sounded  a'  the  Methody 
tune  at  me,  till  I  grew  cauld  to  my  shoes,  an'  I 
stood  in  the  munelicht  amid  the  awesome  sound- 
in',  a  wishin'  that  I  hadna  been  aye  too  busy 
an'  poor  an'  fretsome  an'  cross  to  hae  treated  the 
auld  mon  mair  kindly  like,  for  he  was  a  peaceable 
auld  mon,  an'  ne'er  did  harm  to  naebody." 

The  woman  rubbed  her  cold  eyes  with  a  mop- 
end,  —  there  were  no  tears  in  them  ;  tears  seemed 
to  have  frozen  out  of  them  years  ago,  but  they 
were  full  of  a  chilly  kind  of  discomfort,  —  and 
12*  R 


274  Hedged  In. 

fell,  upon  that,  briskly  to  scrubbing  Nixy's  little 
'cricket,  kicking  away  into  the  corner,  as  she  did 
so,  one  of  the  dusty  old  pink  gloves.  Eunice 
picked  it  up  and  carried  it  away  with  her. 

She  had  scarcely  paid  the  Scotch  woman  for 
her  trouble,  and  left  the  guitar-shop,  and  was 
making  her  way  in  haste,  sick  and  sad  at  heart, 
up  and  out  of  the  wretched  street,  when  she 
came  upon  a  miserable  figure  of  a  woman  lying 
half  in  the  gutter,  half  upon  the  filthy  sidewalk, 
with  her  head  upon  her  arm.  Some  children 
were  using  her  as  a  target  for  apple-cores  and 
pebbles ;  a  drunken  fellow,  in  passing,  kicked 
her  heavily  out  of  his  way.  The  woman  lifted 
her  head  as  Eunice  went  by,  and  Eunice  stopped. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  trembling  and 
sick,  wondering  how  and  if  she  could  touch  her, 
then,  suddenly  stooping,  laid  her  ungloved  hand 
upon  the  woman's  cheek  in  a  very  gentle  manner. 

"  Moll !     Poor  Moll ! " 

Moll  stared  stupidly. 

"  Look  up  here  ;  do  you  know  me  ?  —  Nixy 
Trent?" 

Moll  crawled  up  a  little  from  the  gutter,  and 
sat  upon  her  heels,  staring  still. 


The  "Methody   Tune:'  275 

"Nix!     Who  the  devil  made  a  lady  of  yoti?" 
"God's   folks/'    said    Eunice,   giving   the   first 
answer    that    occurred    to    her,    in    Nixy's   old 
phrase,  certain,  at  least,  that  Moll  would  under 
stand  it. 

"  God's  folks  indeed  ! "  sneered  Moll,  most  mis 
erably  ;  "  I'd  like  to  see  God's  folks,  nor  yet  their 
Master,  trouble  themselves  about  me  !  I  'm  sick. 
Struck  through  the  lungs.  Consumption.  See, 
don't  ye  ?  "  —  she  held  up  her  face,  emaciated 
and  livid  till  it  was  shocking  to  see,  full  in  the 
pallid  sunlight,  —  "  I  'm  sick ;  and  I  'm  dying, 
what 's  more.  Can't  crawl  no  further  'n  the  gut 
ter  now.  Last  week  I  could  get  up  the  street. 
It's  all  the  comfort  I  get, — the  sun  on  me. 
You  'd  never  guess,  if  you  died  for  it,  how  cold  it 
is  in  the  attic.  Once  a  day  I  crawl  down  stairs 
—  this  way  —  on  my  hands.  At  night  I  crawl 
up.  I  'm  dying  like  a  dog,  and  starving  too,  — 
and  damned  besides.  How  many  o'  '  God's  folks ' 
do  you  know  as  would  take  me  in  and  let  me 
go  to  hell  from  their  fine  houses,  —  curse  'em  ! 
I  tell  you  I  'm  dying  ! " 

She  fell  down  again  weakly,  and  lay  with  her 
haggard  face  upon  her  arm,  and  her  hair  in  the 


276  Hedged  In. 

"  There  are  places.  There  are  folks,"  said 
Eunice,  earnestly,  continuing  to  drop  into  Nixy's 
old,  simple,  trustful  language.  "  I  told  you  so, 
Moll,  long  ago.  I  tried  it.  I  found  them.  If 
you  want  to  die  like  a  decent  woman,  I  promise 
I  '11  find  you  a  place  to  do  it  in." 

"  I  'd  like  to  die  in  a  bed  with  a  white  cover 
to  it  —  just  washed,"  said  Moll,  slowly.  "Don't 
know  as  I  'm  partikkelar  about  nothin'  else.  I  'd 
as  lieves  do  it  one  place  as  t'  other.  I  'd  go  to  a 
'sylum  or  somewheres,  if  there  was  .sun,  and 
folks  to  get  me  there.  Don't  make  no  odds. 
I  Ve  heard  they  lay  you  out  neat  —  in  white 
shrouds  —  at  the  'sylum.  I  want  to  die  in  some 
thing — clean,"  added  Moll,  trying  to  move  a  little 
out  of  the  ditch.  "  This  mud  sticks  to  you  so ! 
And  I  Ve  got  nobody  to  bring  me  water.  And 
the  well 's  dirty,  if  I  had.  But  it  don't  make  no 
odds  !  Got  to  get  used  to  going  without  water  in 
t'  other  world,  I  take  it.  Will  I  be  here  day  after 
to-morrow  ?  Yes,  —  in  the  sun,  —  in  the  mud 
here,  —  if  I  ain't  got  to  the  thirsty  place  afore 
then  ;  and  thankee  for  your  trouble,  Nix.  No, 
don't  stop  to  get  me  water  now  —  nor  move  me. 
I  'd  rather  sleep.  You  '11  draw  a  crowd  if  you 


The  "Metkody  Tune?  277 

stop  here.  Good  by,  and  good  luck  to  ye  !  I  '11 
watch  for  ye  —  if  ye  '11  find  a  white  spread  —  and 
the  sun  stays  out  so  long.  There  !  Go,  and  be 
quick  about  it !  " 

Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle  had  the  control  of  a  bed 
"with  a  white  spread  —  just  washed,"  in  the 
hospital  of  the  Magdalen  Home,  and  Moll,  at 
Mrs.  Purcell's  petition,  went  into  it. 

She  lingered  in  it,  in  a  stupid,  dozing  condition, 
for  several  weeks,  paying  little  or  no  attention 
to  nurse  or  doctor,  visitor,  chaplain,  or  trustee  ; 
but,  waking  suddenly  one  rainy  morning,  she 
asked  for  "  Nix."  It  happened  to  be  inspection- 
day,  and  Mrs.  Zerviah  Myrtle  happened  to  be  at 
the  Home  inspecting,  and  so  it  happened  that 
"Nix"  was  identified  and  sent  for. 

"  Shall  I  not  read  to  you,  or  —  pray  —  or  per 
haps  sing  a  hymn  ? "  Mrs.  Myrtle,  sitting  down 
by  Moll's  bedside,  asked,  after  the  messenger 
had  departed  to  bring  Eunice.  "  She  cannot  get 
here  before  night,  and  if  you  were  to  grow  worse, 
you  know,  and  no  religious  assistance  —  " 

"  I  '11  hang  on  till  Nix  comes,"  interrupted 
Moll,  wearily  turning  away  her  face. 


278  Hedged  In. 

"  But  if  you  are  not  prepared  for  the  great 
change,"  urged  Mrs.  Myrtle,  looking  much  dis 
tressed. 

"  Must  run  my  chances,"  said  Moll,  doggedly. 
"  I  'm  too  sick  to  hear  religion,  —  much  obleeged 
to  you.  That  dress  of  yourn  rustles  all  kind  o' 
through  my  head.  Is  that  a  prayer-book  you  Ve 
laid  along  down  there  on  my  feet  ?  It 's  awful 
heavy  to  me." 

The  prayer-book  was  not  heavier  than  Mrs. 
Myrtle's  heart  as  she  rustled,  sighing,  away. 

"  Religious  effort  among  the  masses,"  she  sadly 
said  to  the  chaplain  of  the  institution,  "  is  not, 
I  am  becoming  convinced,  at  all  my  forte.  I 
have  no  knack  at  it ;  I  am  no  more  apt  in  it  than 
I  should  be  in  making  bread.  I  find  it  extremely 
depressing  ! " 

The  chaplain  (a  modest  man  with  a  shrill 
voice)  took  off  his  spectacles,  and  shrilly  said,  — 

"  Make  pin-cushions,  ma'am  !  " 

"  PzVz-cushions,  my  dear  sir  ? " 

"  Pin-cushions,"  said  the  chaplain ;  but  he 
modestly  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  modestly 
said  no  more. 

It  was,  as  Mrs.  Myrtle  had  said  that  it  would 


The  "Methody   Tune?  279 

be,  quite   night   before    Eunice,    in   the   driving 
storm,  reached  the  Home. 

Moll,  in  her  white  bed,  lay  in  a  stupor  ;  had 
not   spoken,  they  said,  for   more   than    an   hour 
past ;  her  hand  only  gave  signs  of  life  ;  it  moved 
up  and  down  feebly  across  the  coverlet,  pulling 
off  imaginary  specks  and  shreds,  feeling,  appar 
ently,  to  see  how  "  clean  "  it  was.     Eunice,  after 
waiting  for  a  time  in  silence,  to  see  if  she  would 
not  speak,  roused  her  at  last  by  saying,  — 
"  You  wanted  me,  Moll  ?  " 
"  Nix  ?  Yes.    How  wet  you  are  !  "  Moll  opened 
her  sunken  eyes.     "  It  was  a  rainy  night  to  come 
out  in.     And  I  only  wanted  you  to  ask  you  —  if 
you  don't  mind  —  to  let  me  take  hold  of  your 
hand.      There ! "     She    took    the    hand    which 
Eunice  held  out  to  her,  and  laid  it  up  between 
her  own,  against  her  cheek,  and,  so  lying,  slept 
again. 

"  Was  there  nothing  more,  Moll  ? "  asked  Eu 
nice  presently. 

"  Nothing  more,"  said  Moll. 
By  and  by  she  whispered  a  word  or  two,  which 
Eunice,  by  careful  listening,  —  the  rain  beat  so 
upon  the  windows,  —  caught. 


280  Hedged  In. 

"  Is  there  any  of  them  —  the  folks  —  God's 
folks  you  tell  on  —  the  other  side?" 

"  The  other  side  ?  " 

"  The  other  side  of  this  which  is  going  to  hap 
pen  to  me,  —  the  other  side  of  layin'  here  an' 
dyin'.  If  I  thought  there  was  —  "  said  Moll. 

She  broke  off  there,  and  neither  spoke  nor 
listened  afterwards,  except  that  once,  Eunice, 
feeling  a  slight  stirring  of  the  cheek  which  lay 
against  her  hand,  and  bending  her  own  down 
close  upon  it,  heard,  or  seemed,  or  dreamed  that 
she  seemed  to  hear,  the  echo,  the  breath,  the 
shade,  of  another  whisper,  — 

"  If  I  thought  there  was  —  " 


The  Ninth  of  August.  281 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    NINTH     OF    AUGUST. 

r  I  ^HE  gth  of  August,  18 — .     Many  people  will 

-*•  remember  the  day  as  the  occasion  of  the 
angriest  and  most  destructive  thunder-shower 
known,  either  in  Atlas  or  in  the  region  round 
about,  for  several  years  on  either  side  of  the 
date. 

A  few  —  residents  of  Gower,  or  friends  of  resi 
dents  in  Gower  —  will  remember  the  day  for  those 
more  especial  reasons  which  induce  me  to  bring 
it  into  the  reader's  notice. 

Of  these,  I  may  plainly  and  at  once  specify 
Christina  Purcell's  marriage. 

I  object  to  closing  so  grave  and  old-fashioned 
a  story  as  this  with  a  wedding.  And  if  it  had 
not  been  the  gravest  and  most  .old-fashioned  of 
weddings,  I  am  sure  I  should  have  forbidden  the 
banns. 

It  was  old-fashioned.     No  cards,  no   "  recep- 


282  Hedged  In. 

tion,"  no  satin  nor  shimmer  nor  shine,  nor  trails 
nor  tears,  nor  faints,  nor  fans,  nor  chignons,  — 
only  Christina  in  white  muslin,  and  the  doctor  in 
white  kids,  and  the  parlor  in  white  flowers,  and 
the  minister  and  Margaret  and  Eunice  and  I 
to  see.  Christina  would  n't  have  had  so  much  as 
the  minister,  if  it  had  n't  been  decided  best,  "out 
of  courtesy,"  to  ask  him.  "  Such  a  pity  mother 
can't  marry  us  ! "  she  said. 

The  doctor  had  waited  a  good  while  for  her, 
or  she  for  him,  or  perhaps  it  was  a  little  of  both  ; 
what  with  Margaret's  ill  health,  and  the  little 
doctor's  slowly  gained  footing  in  his  slow  pro 
fession,  and  planning,  and  considering,  and  wait 
ing  till  it  was  "quite  best,"  as  Margaret  her 
self  at  last  decided  for  them,  they  had  been 
"promised,"  as  the  old  folks  in  Gower  called 
it,  nearly  four  years  when  their  wedding-day 
came. 

The  doctor  was  beginning  to  look  old,  —  so 
much  older  than  Christina  that  only  the  stars  in 
the  young  wife's  eyes  saved  Margaret  at  times 
from  some  persistent,  unromantic,  motherly  fears 
for  the  permanency  of  her  daughter's  happiness, 
from  wondering,  as  indeed  she  half  hinted  once 


The  Ninth  of  August.  283 

to  Eunice,  "  whether,  if  Christina  had  lived  any 
where  else  than  in  Gower,  she  would  have  loved 
and  married  somebody  who  would  not  be  an  old 
man  before  she  was  !  " 

"  I  suppose  I  cannot  understand  these  things," 
said  Eunice,  with  a  certain  reverence  in  her  voice 
which  moved  Margaret  much  ;  "  but  when  I  look 
into  Christina's  face,  I  always  feel  as  if  nobody 
in  all  the  world,  but  just  Dyke  Burtis  here, 
could  have  made  her  his  wife  to-day  ;  not  if  all 
the  world  had  shown  its  best  and  manliest  side 
to  her,  and  not  if  all  the  world  had  tried  to  win 
her  love.  Is  that  romantic  ?  "  she  added,  with  a 
slight  smile. 

Perhaps  it  was,  but  it  was  very  sweet  romance 
to  feel  about  one  on  one's  wedding-day,  and  Eu 
nice's  sweet,  still  face  shone  full  of  it,  —  as 
Christina  fully  felt  and  well  remembered,  all  day 
long. 

And  though  it  was  a  grave  little  wedding,  — 
perhaps,  indeed,  could  not  be  otherwise  with 
just  such  a  face  as  Eunice's  there,  —  how  could 
it  be  a  sad  one,  with  the  shining  face  to  light 
it? 

It  was  noticed,  through  the  day,  that  Eunice 


284  Hedged  In. 

was  somewhat  more  than  commonly  pale,  and 
that,  though  she  was  busy,  in  and  out,  here  and 
there,  up  and  down,  smiling  much,  that  it  was 
she  who  tied  the  flowers,  who  trimmed  the 
rooms,  who  dressed  and  veiled  and  gloved  and 
kissed  Christina,  and  stopped  her  (so  Christina 
says)  on  her  way  down  stairs,  to  lead  her  into 
the  gray  room,  and  close  the  door,  and  fold  her 
in  her  arms,  and  move  her  lips  a  little  as  if 
she  would  have  spoken  ;  yet,  speaking  not  a 
word,  unwound  her  arms,  unlatched  the  door, 
and  led  her,  by  the  hand  all  the  way,  down 
stairs,  —  that  through  all  the  day  she  was  very 
silent. 

The  doctor  came  upon  her  once  suddenly,  in 
a  corner  of  the  piazza.,  where  she  had  crept  to  be 
out  of  notice,  and  where,  though  Christina  was 
calling  her  in  a  pretty  little  flurry  about  the 
tuberoses,  and  though  Margaret  was  wondering, 
in  the  hall,  who  was  going  to  cut  the  cake,  she 
sat  with  her  back  to  the  door,  and  her  head 
dropped  in  a  peculiar  manner,  which  attracted 
his  attention.  As  he  drew  near,  he  noticed  that 
she  unclasped  her  hands,  which  had  been  belted 
about  her  knees,  as  was  her  way  when  enduring 


The  Ninth  of  August.  285 

sharp  pain,  raised  her  bent  body  from  over  them, 
and  made  a  motion  like  wringing  them,  which  she 
checked  when  she  saw  him. 

"  You  are  ill  —  worse  ? "  he  asked  her. 

"It  is  nothing  —  nothing  at  all  —  no  worse 
than  —  not  much,  at  least  —  I  am  quite  well  now. 
Let  me  go.  They  seem  to  be  calling  me.  Do 
not  notice  me  to-day.  They  are  all  so  happy  ! 
Do  not  !  " 

She  sprang  up  with  her  bright,  white  smile, 
and  found  the  flowers,  and  cut  the  cake,  and,  as 
before,  was  in  and  out,  and  up  and  down,  and 
here  and  there  ;  and  either  the  doctor  did  not, 
in  accordance  with  her  wish,  notice  her  again 
that  day,  or  he  forgot  her.  I  presume  he  forgot 
her.  One  can  pardon  a  man  anything  on  his 
wedding-day. 

It  has  been  well  remembered  that  Eunice  on 
this  day,  for  the  first  time  for  many  years,  re 
moved  her  black  dress.  This  was  done  at  Chris 
tina's  urgent  wish.  She  had  come  into  Eunice's 
room  one  night  a  little  while  before  the  wedding, 
after  Eunice  had  gone  to  bed,  and,  "  taking  ad 
vantage  of  the  dark,  or  she  never  should  have 
dared,"  she  said,  had  whispered, — 


286  Hedged  In. 

"  You  '11  not  wear  black,  dear,  to  marry  me 
in  ? " 

"  What  should  I  wear  ? "  asked  Eunice,  after 
a  pause.  "  Is  it  not  proper  ?  " 

"  Not,"  said  Christina,  with  decision,  "  unless 
you  will  agree  to  wear  white  kids  at  my  fu 
neral." 

Eunice  smiled,  but  Christina,  through  the  dark, 
could  see  how  faintly. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  patiently,  —  "  the  day  is 
yours.  Anything  you  want,  I  suppose,  if  you 
won't  ask  —  " 

"  \Vhite,  Eunice.  That  is  just  what  I  must 
ask.  I  must  see  you,  for  once  in  my  life,  and  for 
this  once,  in  a  white  dress." 

"  All  white  ?  " 

"  All  white,  from  head  to  foot,  —  as  white  as 
your  face  this  minute  looks  through  the  dark." 

Which  was  very  white  indeed. 

"  What  will  your  mother  say  ?  "  asked  Eunice, 
after  a  pause. 

"  Mother  ?     She  proposed  it !     Mother  ?  " 

"  Once  I  asked  her  —  years  ago  —  if  I  might 
wear  a  little  white  jacket  like  yours.  She  said 
no.  But  do  not  tell  her  that  I  remembered  it." 


The  Ninth  of  August.  287 

Christina  never  did. 

Eunice  chose  and  wore  a  solid,  soft,  snowy 
merino,  close  at  the  throat  and  wrists,  and  hang 
ing  heavily  to  the  floor  ;  an  odd  dress  for  a  wed 
ding,  "  but  as  perfect  as  the  tea-roses,"  said  Mar 
garet. 

I  can  remember  well,  that'when  she  came  down 
stairs,  and  slowly  in  among  us,  where  we  stood 
chattering  and  rehearsing,  that  there  was  not 
one  of  us  who  could  speak  ;  that  Margaret  tried 
and  failed  ;  that  Christina  tried,  but  only  kissed 
her  ;  that  Eunice  ran  her  eye  quickly  from  one 
to  another,  over  us  all,  in  doubt,  or  dread,  or 
hesitation  of  some  kind,  which  must  have  abated 
with  the  lifting  of  an  eyelid  ;  but  I  cannot  recall 
the  features  of  her  face,  or  their  expression. 
Something  about  her  dazzled  me. 

Christina  was  married  in  the  afternoon,  took 
tea  with  the  rest  of  us  at  home,  tied  on  her  hat 
and  walked  off  to  the  doctor's  house  a  little  after 
the  setting  of  the  sun.  We  made  the  plainest, 
homeliest,  heartiest  day  of  it  that  ever  was  made 
of  a  wedding-day.  And  we  had  the  heartiest, 
sunniest  kind  of  a  day,  —  alight  and  warm  to 
the  very  tips  of  the  trembling  leaves,  and  serene 


288  Hedged  In. 

to  the  brown  lips  of  the  earth.  There  was  noth 
ing  at  all  —  unless,  perhaps,  a  little  low  haze  in 
the  west  —  that  could  have  indicated  or  inti 
mated  the  coming  tempest.  Though  certain  of 
the  weather-wise  were  heard,  indeed,  when  the 
storm  had  passed,  to  say  that  the  sun  set  in  an 
ill  fashion,  the  like  of  which  old  experienced  eyes 
had  not  witnessed  for  years. 

However  that  may  be,  it  was  in  a  gorgeous 
fashion  ;  and  we  sat  on  the  piazza,  after  tea,  to 
watch  it,  chatting  and  hushing  as  the  moods  took 
us,  and  as  the  flush  and  frown  of  the  sky  al 
lowed,  —  Christina  and  the  doctor,  like  two  chil 
dren,  at  Margaret's  feet  ;  Eunice,  a  little  apart 
and  alone,  upon  the  piazza  steps. 

She  sat  quite  in  the  light.  The  little  hop-vine 
shadows  tripped  about  her,  peered  over  her  shoul 
der,  peeped  into  her  eyes,  stood  on  tiptoe  over 
her  soft  hair,  but  held  up  their  gray  fingers  and 
motioned  each  other  back,  and  left  not  so  much 
as  a  footmark  on  her. 

"  They  don't  dare,"  whispered  Christina,  "  that 
dress  shines  so  !  Why,  see  !  —  the  color  ;  where 
does  the  color  come  from  ? " 

As  Christina  spoke,  the  creamy  surface  of  Eu- 


The  Nintk  of  August  289 

nice's  dress  changed  from  white  to  gold,  to  pal 
lid  pink,  to  rose,  to  red,  and,  looking  up,  we 
saw  that  all  the  world  lay  bathed  in  redness. 
White  lilies  in  the  garden  held  up  their  faces 
for  it.  The  purple  hill,  with  its  crown  of  graves, 
laid  its  cheek  solemnly  against  it.  The  town, 
the  church,  the  distance,  took  the  tint,  and  all 
our  little  hop-shadows  blushed.  The  low  purple 
haze,  grown  solid  and  slaty,  had  just  caught  the 
ball  of  the  sun,  and  there  was  something  singular 
in  the  effect  of  such  a  mass  of  color  of  which  we 
could  not  touch  or  see  the  source. 

"  It  is  like  a  prison  on  fire ! "  said  the  doctor. 

"  It  makes  me  think  of  the  calyx  of  a  great 
flower,"  mused  Christina. 

"  It  is  more  like  a  drought  than  either,"  laughed 
Margaret. 

"  I  don't  altogether  like  it,"  continued  Chris 
tina,  shaking  her  head.  "  It  is  as  solemn  as  the 
Book  of  Isaiah,  and  I  don't  understand  it  any 
better.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  been  buried 
rather  than  married.  Eunice  !  —  look  at  Eunice  ; 
how  still  she  sits ! " 

She  sat  indeed  still,  with  her  eyes  turned  away 
to  the  burning  hills,  so  that  we  could  not  see  them. 
13  s 


290  Hedged  In. 

"  Eunice,  think  aloud  for  us  !  Come  !  What 
do  you  make  of  such  a  sky  as  that,  to  come  to 
day,  of  all  days  in  the  year  ! " 

"  It  is  like,"  said  Eunice,  without  turning  her 
head,  —  "it  is  like  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ, 
which  cleanseth  from  all  sin." 

She  spoke  under  her  breath,  as  one  very  much 
awed  ;  and  when  Christina's  chatter  broke,  and 
no  one  answered  her,  —  perhaps  because  no  one 
of  us  felt,  just  then,  worthy,  —  she  rose  and 
walked  away  from  us,  through  the  tall  ranks  of 
garden  lilies,  through  the  gap  in  the  little  broken 
fence  beyond,  up  the  purple  hill,  and  into  the 
crown  of  graves,  —  drenched,  as  she  went,  in  the 
redness :  — 

"  ....  an  awful  sign  and  tender,  sown  on 
Earth  and  sky." 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  she  stopped,  she 
seemed  to  plunge  into  it,  and  she  stood,  or 
seemed  to  stand,  quite  still,  until  the  scarlet  sea 
rippled  in  paling  waves  away,  and  the  dusk 
set  in,  and  we  could  see  her  white  dress  only, 
very  dimly,  through  the  gloom  of  the  brooding 
storm. 


The  Ninth  of  August.  291 

Margaret  waited  for  her  upon  the  piazza  after 
the  rest  of  us  had  gone  away ;  and  Eunice, 
coming  wearily  up  the  steps,  crept  in  her  old 
way  to  her  feet,  and  laid  her  head  upon  her 
lap. 

"  So  they  have  left  us,"  said  Margaret,  gently 
stroking  her  hair,  "  all  to  ourselves,  to  finish  life, 
Eunice." 

"  To  finish  life,"  repeated  Eunice.  "  Yes.  I 
wish  —  " 

"  What  do  you  wish  ?  " 

"An  old  fancy.  You  talked  me  out  of  it  at 
the  time.  I  suppose  it  is  impossible.  But  I 
suppose  I  shall  always  want  to  go  back." 

"You  mean  the  Thicket  Street  plan  ?  " 

This  was  a  "  fancy  "  which  Margaret  had  with 
difficulty  "talked  her  out  of"  at  the  time  when 
poor  Moll  Manners  dared  the  risk  of  finding 
God's  folks  upon  the  other  side  of  her  clean 
white  death-bed  at  the  Home. 

"  Yes.  I  could  not  go  without  you.  We  could 
not,  I  suppose,  either  of  us,  have  gone  without 
Christina.  But  now  that  she  is  in  her  own  home 
with  her  own  work,  and  now  that  you  and  I  have 
none  —  " 


292  Hedged  In. 

"What  would  you  do  in  Thicket  Street?" 
asked  Margaret,  thoughtfully. 

"  Save  souls  ! "  said  Eunice. 

Over  this  blunt,  old-fashioned,  orthodox  an 
swer,  Margaret  mused  a  little  in  silence. 

"  There  would  be  peculiar  difficulties,  peculiar 
annoyances  for  you  in  ever  so  successful  a  mis 
sionary  life  in  Thicket  Street.  Have  you  consid 
ered  that?" 

"  O  yes  !  quite  considered  all  of  that." 

"You  would  find  it  no  obstacle  ?  " 

"  No  obstacle.  Perhaps  altogether  the  reverse 
of  an  obstacle.  I  should  like  to  pass  along  into 
some  other  hands,  before  I  die,  a  little  part  of  all 
that  I  have  borrowed  from  you,  —  the  long-suffer 
ing  and  the  patience,  the  trust  and  tenderness  ; 
the  doing  what  no  other  woman  that  I  ever  knew 
would  do  ;  the  courage  and  the  watching  and 
the  praying  and  persistence  which,"  said  Eunice, 
with  much  emotion,  "  would  save  the  world  if  the 
world  were  Thicket  Street !  " 

"  Hush,  dear  ! "  Margaret  kissed  the  words  off 
from  her  lips,  and,  feeling  how  cold  they  were, 
and  how  they  trembled  with  the  excitement  of 
the  day,  bade  her  talk  no  longer,  and  said  that 


The  Ninth  of  August.  293 

they  would  consider  what  she  had  been  saying  at 
another  time. 

She  watched  Eunice  climb  the  stairs  with  her 
little  lamp  in  her  hand,  thinking  how  feebly  she 
walked,  and  following  the  slip  and  bend  of  her 
thin  ringers  upon  the  balusters.  On  the  landing 
she  stopped,  and,  shading  her  eyes  a  little  with 
her  hand,  looked  smiling  down,  started,  Margaret 
afterwards  thought,  to  speak,  but  said  nothing, 
and,  still  smiling,  shut  the  gray-room  door. 
A  fold  of  her  heavy  white  dress  fell  out  and 
caught  in  the  latching.  She  opened  the  door, 
drew  it  in,  and  shut  the  door  again. 

The  great  tempest  of  the  Qth,  perhaps,  had 
been  slowly  building  the  sky  over  with  black  bul 
warks  for  several  hours,  but  it  sprang  fire  upon 
Gower  with  great  suddenness  a  little  before  mid 
night.  Half  the  signs  in  the  town  went  down. 
A  steeple  fell,  and  another  tottered.  Railings, 
roofings,  fences,  door-posts,  showered  all  the  air, 
and  the  stoutest  trees  in  the  old  town  fell,  before 
Gower  had  time  to  take  off  its  nightcap  and  look 
out  of  the  window.  All  of  this  any  "  old  inhabi 
tant  "  will  tell  you  as  well  as  I. 


294  Hedged  In. 

Most  of  this  Margaret  and  I,  roused  by  a  fear- 
iul  crash  and  yet  more  fearful  glare  in  our  very 
ears  and  eyes,  confusedly  saw  or  felt,  while  we 
were  more  particularly  conscious  that  the  huge 
elm  in  front  of  the  house  had  fallen,  and  lay  — 
scathed,  smoking,  torn  —  prone  across  the  gar- 
denful  of  white  lilies,  and  hard  by  the  windows 
of  the  gray  room. 

"  I  don't  know  but  we  are  all  going  to  perish 
here  !  This  is  horrible  !  "  cried  Margaret,  grop 
ing  for  her  matches.  "  Do  let  us  die  in  the  light, 
at  least,  and  together.  Eunice !  How  dark  it 
grows !  Eunice,  Eunice !  She  does  not  hear. 
We  must  get  to  her,  or  she  to  us.  Hear  that ! " 

As  she  spoke,  such  a  shock  struck  the  house 
as  made  her  stagger  where  she  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  the  match  in  her  hand 
went  out.  She  struck  another,  —  it  flashed  and 
darkened  •,  another,  every  match  in  the  room,  — 
every  match  in  the  room  went  out ;  and  it  was 
as  blue  and  ghostly  and  ugly  a  sight  as  ever  I 
saw. 

Margaret  threw  down  her  match-box,  and 
groped  her  way,  with  an  exclamation  of  horror, 
through  the  dark  to  the  gray  room. 


The  Ninth  of  August.  295 

"Eunice — "she  pushed  open  the  door;  but 
when  Eunice  made  no  answer,  she  stopped  and 
called  me,  and  we  went  both  of  us  in  together. 

When  the  storm  was  over,  and  the  stars  out, 
and  the  lighted  house  grown  still,  we  could  see 
how  quietly  she  lay,  —  not  struck  by  the  storm, 
as  we  had  thought,  but  sunk  in  her  soft  white 
dress,  as  she  had  fallen  hours  ago,  at  the  foot 
of  the  great  wooden  cross,  and  with  her  arms 
around  it. 


THE  END 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


J.     i       A^'-iX    JL  V^  WJ  J-J 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


FEB17'66~5P        MAY  2  5 


LD  2lA-60m-3,'65 
(F2336slO)476B 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA         LIBRARY   OF  THE   UNIVERSITY   OF 


^§e 


I  >^^^i 

a  =  6    .^™,,..  ~k(>A<b^I 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA         LIBRARY   OF  THE    UNIVERSITY   OF 

/Tt> 


